Two Mondays ago, I posted on the book booty that came my way over the holiday break, including Haruki Murakami’s Novelist As A Vocation.

Unfortunately I haven’t yet had a chance to dip further into the book’s series of collected essays, but the whole notion of writing as vocation put me in mind of some reflections that I posted some years ago — and am revisiting today.

On Writing As A Vocation

In 2010, Zadie Smith published her Rules for Writers in The Guardian newspaper, one of which was:

“Don’t romanticise your ‘vocation.’ You can either write good sentences or you can’t. There is no ‘writer’s lifestyle.’ All that matters is what you leave on the page.”

I completely agree that in terms of writing, all that matters is what you leave on the page. And certainly there is no one writer’s lifestyle—the lifestyles will be as diverse as the writers themselves. I also agree that it does aspiring writers no favours to romanticize the art.

….inside the writing life…

However, I do believe that writing is a vocation. A vocation, deriving from the Latin vocare, to call, is by definition something one feels called upon to do. Traditionally, the implication was of divine calling, for example, to a  religious life.

Dedicated pursuit of any occupation that is as artistically and economically uncertain as writing can only be regarded as a vocation—something the writer feels called upon to do. And my own experience of consistently waking up at nights, haunted by the recurring: “Why aren’t you writing? You should be writing!” is certainly in the nature of a “calling” or “summons”, whether one chooses to regard the source as an external muse or inner creative drive.

Photo credit: Andi Buchanan

I think such callings contain an element of mystery, but not necessarily one that is restricted to creative occupations: I have met  people who feel equally called—or compelled—to practice medicine, to teach, and to cook, for example.  In acknowledging that sense of vocation in relation to writing, one is no more romanticizing one’s pursuit and practice of the art, than a doctor or nurse, teacher or chef, would be.

Nonetheless, I have experienced the process of writing as “mystery.” Mostly, as has been famously said, although the creative process needs inspiration, the bulk of what follows is perspiration, ie sheer hard work. But there are still transcendent moments: e.g. when an impossible plot conundrum suddenly falls into place; when a detail that seemed small in Book 1 suddenly becomes vital in Book 3 or 4; when you alter your original idea to remain true to the way a character has developed—and simultaneously illuminate previously obscure motivations and behaviours. Sometimes, too, the mystery can be as simple as why a name change alters not only the character but also their part in the story.

More hard work, than romance.

I suspect many of those practicing other occupations, such as the medical practitioners, the teachers, and the chefs, can point to similar experiences: the “eureka” moments that are often the source of breakthroughs in skill, learning, or knowledge.  My own experience suggests that wherever there is inspiration, hard work, and creativity, there will also be “mystery.” And to the extent that breakthroughs and eureka moments are serendipitous and exciting and amazing, I think it’s OK to romanticize a little–while still keeping one’s feet firmly on the ground.

Because Zadie Smith is still 100% right: no matter how hard one may work or how many moments of mystery one may experience, in terms of the writing, all that counts, in the end, is what is left on the page.

It’s always one word & one page at a time…

Some of those other matters may still matter a great deal, of course, in terms of the satisfaction in living one’s own life well, regardless of the writing outcome—but that’s another matter entirely.

“The Heir of Night” :– Morningstar Award