If you’re a writer, what compels you to write?

This is the question I’ve been asking myself lately as I tip-toe down this new path in life, a path which I hope leads toward publication. But why? Why do I care if I’m ever published? I can just write for myself, right?

Of course I can.

And I did, last year. I wrote my first book. O.K., first draft of a book. I kept telling myself I was doing it for me, and it didn’t matter whether or not anyone else ever read it, much less liked it. That was a bald-faced lie, of course, but I had to keep repeating it to my anxiety-ridden brain, or I never would have finished the thing.

“Who do you think you are?” “You think you can write like Eloisa James? Lynn Kurland? LaVyrle Spencer?” “You’re not even trained for this – you never took any creative writing classes!” “Like you’ll ever actually be able to do this – give up!”

These are just some of the thoughts my inner demons have thrown at me along the way – and I still battle them daily, as evidenced by the fact that five months after I finished it, my first draft remains a first draft, and that the draft of my second book is only at 15K words, written in dribs and drabs as I wage war against the bombs of self-doubt exploding continuously in my head.

I don’t say this to invoke pity – I’m no different than most writers, I guess. Self-doubt seems to be a common theme among authors as I read through more and more tweets, blogs, writing guides, etc. I say it to force the question, again, of why do I want to write? It’d be easier not to pursue this dream. Many days it is. Many days the only writing I do consists of Facebook updates or silly tweets.

But the urge is there, within, blazing against all the barriers I’ve set for myself. I want to write stories. And I want to share them with the world. Even more, I want the world to love them.

Do I care about financial success? Not particularly. Would it be nice to bring home some money to ease the breadwinning burden my husband has born for 14 years? Sure. But I know in my heart I’m not in this for money. Which is a good thing, since in spite of my husband’s insistence that I could be the next E. L. James or Stephenie Meyer or J.K. Rowling, I know better. I know that ain’t happenin’.

So if I don’t care about the moola, what do I want?

1. I want to write good, well-crafted, entertaining, heart-touching, laughter-invoking stories with a happy ending. I LOVE a good romance. I have since I was a teen. I’ve always realized that romance novels are not the simple formulaic stories others accuse them of being: most of the authors I love are highly educated smart women who write for smart audiences. All the elements have to come together to make a romance sing: characters, plot, story development, dialogue, outcome. It takes talent to do that. Do I have such talent? Who knows?

2. I want to connect with other people. Writing by and large assumes an audience. I suppose diaries may desire a viewership of one, but any other form of written communication seeks just that – communication. Connection. Bonding. Understanding. And maybe a little bit of ego – a little bit of, “Look at me! Here I am! Pay attention to me!”

3. I want to be entertaining. Nothing attracts me to others as much as a good sense of humor. I love things that make me laugh, and what usually gets me grinning is witty word play. I read romances more for the zippy interactions between characters, especially when slight snark is involved, than I do for the sex, people.  A well-written sex scene? OK, yeah, I’m good with that. But what I *really*  love is the romantic build-up, the sexual tension, the will-they-or-won’t they (even if you know they will; it IS romance, after all) – all of it. Much of that, for me, is shown through wit, through dialogue as foreplay, if you will. I’ll take verbal dexterity over muscles almost any day. But put them together and…*dreamy sigh*.

4. I want to prove to myself I can do it. I’ve been told my whole life that I am a good writer. I’ve been telling people my whole life that I’m going to write romance novels. But I excel at, well, not delivering. Those anxiety bullies in my head? They’re pretty good at stealing my lunch money. They’re great at keeping me from my goals, whether through letting myself get distracted by other obligations, real or imaged (I am a wife and mom, after all, so it’s not like I don’t have any other responsibilities), paralyzing me with self-doubt that leads to nowhere but inaction, or making success sometimes feel as scary as failure.

5. I’d like to think the voices in my head are characters who are asking for their stories to be told, rather than, uh, something else.

Those are my reasons. What are yours?

I am giddy. Giddy.

I joined the Romance Writers of America last week, and received my official membership confirmation yesterday.

I know it’s not nearly the same as publishing a book; not at all. But for me it’s thrilling because I’ve put myself out there and declared to the world that I’m really doing this.  I’m finally pursuing my dream of writing romance novels, a dream I’ve had (and proclaimed) since I was just a kid in high school. Yeah, I’ve announced such on Facebook and Twitter. Yes, I’ve got my shingle out on this website. But joining an established writing association feels more significant, more… real.

For many this is just a logical no-brainer step on the path to success, but it took a lot for this anxiety-ridden mom-turned-author-wannabe to, as the Hokey Pokey says, “put my whole self in”.

So here’s to facing the fear. Here’s to revising and editing that first draft of “A Man of Character” and submitting it to someone, somewhere, before the end of 2013. And here’s to – hopefully – attending the RWA conference in 2014.

And now back to writing. Because joining all the associations in the world won’t accomplish a thing if I don’t do the work.