On writing as a hobby
In my other life, I’m looking for a job. Writing books pays zero bills in our household, therefore my workday routine must always focus on activities deemed more useful to society and rewarded in more pragmatic and monetary ways.
That said, I wouldn’t trade the need to work for a billionaire’s inheritance – that would be a disaster. Living off an inheritance, or savings, investments and property (which seems to be the dream of many people) would likely ruin my writing discipline and destroy my motivation to write in the first place. I’m lucky and privileged enough to have been born in a place without war, to have been kept safe and fed during childhood, to have received enough parental support to study multiple degrees, and to live a healthy life surrounded by friends and family.
I like working. I like having challenges and objectives, making plans and delivering outcomes, being of service to others, and recognised as an expert. I love learning new things and solving problems. I’m happy with the structure and challenge of a full-time job alongside my writing hobby, even if work claims the core of my weekday hours.
Crucially, my work persona is distinct from my writer persona. You won’t hear me talking about data analytics, product management or product marketing here, no matter how fascinating I find these topics. How I approach AI and data products in the workplace is very different from how I approach AI as a writer, so even in common themes there is little crossover. I could consider starting a different blog for my professional activity, but I probably wouldn’t manage to keep it up once I find a job.
A few days ago, during a job interview, someone asked me how I find the time for creative writing. Here’s a non-exhaustive list:
I write on Saturday mornings in the same old café, while waiting to pick up my son from his weekly drama class.
I write when I wake up at dawn with strange dreams, induced by real anxieties and imaginary plots from an ongoing book.
I write in my head while cooking dinner, thinking about ways of resolving a plot hole.
I write before bedtime, editing paragraphs of a recent chapter or sometimes adding clumsy passages fuelled by sleep.
I write on most Sundays in chunky slots of at least 4h, which is when I try to stop fiddling with minor tweaks and make steady progress on a new book.
I write during holidays, if I have a good excuse not to do what I was expected to do instead.
I write on carefully picked annual leave days, when my son is in school and everyone else is too busy to notice I exist behind the closed door of my home office.
I write in the toilet, quick notes on my phone, weaving in a new theme I cannot stop obsessing about.
I write after work on weekdays, though not very often, only if I don’t have other plans and I’m not feeling too tired or guilty for spending yet more time writing.
I don’t write every week, but I write most weeks of the year.
Writing increases my wellbeing in much the same way as physical exercise.
My natural state is to be working on a new idea, forming a new world, writing a new book.
I wish running came this easy.
