When I started writing, I wrote because I loved writing. The simple act of creating something – a story, an article, a character, a novel – gave me pleasure, and, whether it was good or bad, pushed me to create writing. It was a good enough reason. It was a privilege to be able to do that. The purpose of writing seemed to be to pursue a passion or a hobby or something that gives pleasure.
But pretty soon, perhaps having come from the corporate world where no activity is considered useful unless it gets you somewhere, I got into the loop of chasing readers, followers, bestsellers, publishers, fame, adaptation, monetization, scale, the works. I forgot the reason I started writing in the first place. The purpose of writing seemed be to make money, or to get famous or rich or on the scene, or whatever else one could measure.
After a couple of years of fairly dogged pursuit of creating fiction, I took a pause. It was exhausting. I realized that I had got off one treadmill and got on to another, albeit one that I had told myself I loved.
It got me thinking as to what was the purpose of my writing. And that is when I realized that the real purpose of writing is neither to pursue pleasure in the creation itself nor to garner fame or money.
The real purpose of my fiction was to entertain and provoke thought in the reader. To bring the reader’s attention to something I wanted to be seen, something I wanted to highlight, not in a preachy way, but to make the reader think. And possibly change.
That was the only real purpose of my fiction. And that was the only thing that was sustainable. And whether I thought about it in the beginning or not, that was always the reason I wrote in the first place.
Now that is a real privilege. And if I could pursue that with focus, that is when it can become fiction with purpose.
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