Writing: Hobby, Vocation, or Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder?

Last Sunday's sermon at church was about work, an appropriate topic for the day before Labor Day. Our minister is reminded us that we should do an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, take all the vacation we're entitled to, and enjoy our lives outside of our jobs.

All of which I completely agree with.

But then he started to talk about "vocations." A vocation, he told us, can be your paying job or not, but whatever it is, you should devote yourself to it because the world needs your talents. Your vocation is the way you make the world a better place.

Now, not so long ago, I would have said that my paying job was my vocation. I like my job. Really. I'm always learning new things and I get to help other people learn new things. What I do feels useful and meaningful, albeit useful and meaningful to a very small sliver of the universe (people who happen to work for credit unions that happen to use our company's data processing software). I've always considered myself exceptionally lucky to have more or less stumbled into a job that lets me do the two things I always wanted to do: write and teach.

Obviously, however, my paying job is no longer my vocation. Or, at least, it's not capturing my interest the way it used to.

Alas, Writing Mania has possessed me. Every minute I spend not writing my book is a minute I wish I were writing my book. Every minute I spend writing or working on my book in some way (reading e-mail from my critique partners and writing-related loop and blog posts counts, right?) it is a minute I could or should be using to accomplish something of much more practical use. Like cleaning my house (its state is increasingly appalling), spending more time with my kids, spending time with friends (I do have some in real life, actually!), doing necessary household errands, etc., not to mention doing my paid job.

So, naturally, as I listened to this sermon about vocations and the value of pursuing them, I had to wonder whether I could consider writing a romance novel a vocation? Does the world really need my talents as a writer?

I'm not saying that I don't think romance novels contribute to a better world. I do. I'm sure there are people who would disagree, but I believe romance novels give readers pleasure and happiness, and it's hard to see how that can do anything but make the world a better place. Maybe the majority of them are not high literature that will be read centuries from now, but I'll bet a few will turn out to be. (Call me if you live long enough to find out which ones!)

But does the world need my romance novels? (I'm trying really hard to finish the one before I start any others, but I've got at least three more floating around in my brain.) Are mine that special?

Given the fact that so few authors ever get their manuscripts accepted for publication, odds seem pretty high that the answer is a resounding No! While I certainly hope to be published some day, the realistic side of my brain tells me that the chances of that are not great. But I keep on writing anyway.

Why?

I wish I could say that it's just a hobby and I'm doing it because I want to. That would be nice, because then it would mean I could stop whenever I want, too. Just a little hobby that I pursue in my spare time. Having a hobby is perfectly acceptable. It's something most people understand.

But as I've just admitted, I don't just pursue it in my spare time. (What is spare time, anyway? Is it like a spare tire, something I can store somewhere out of the way until I need it?) Worse, I can't just stop when I want to. I can't even stop my stories from keeping me awake at night, for heaven's sake! How could I possibly stop writing them when the characters, scenes, and words keep popping into my head and demanding to be set down on the computer screen?

It's not a hobby and it's not a vocation: it's a compulsion. And for people who don't have the compulsion, it must seem as incomprehensible as alcohol or drug addiction to someone who's never experienced it. Why, they must wonder, do writers want to sit all alone in front of a computer with their imaginary friends when there's a whole world of real people out there to experience?

Perhaps it's more understandable to people who are readers. After all, they are the ones who choose to spend their time with the imaginary people we writers create. But it's still not quite the same. Although there are some books that will simply demand I sit down and read them every chance I get, most are a bit less compelling. I enjoy reading, but I know the book will wait for me.

Writing feels very different. The story doesn't want to wait for me. It wants to get out now. Not an hour from now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.

I didn't always have this compulsion. When I was in high school, I did. But I seemed to outgrow the writing bug in my 20s, and I gave it up for a long time. What made it come back now, I have no idea. All I know is that I can't not write. Even though there are times when I think I probably should. Because the other things in my life that should be my vocation (especially my family) are getting short shrift on account of my disease.

I'd found Writeaholics Anonymous, except for one thing.

I'm not sure I want to be cured!