“What Do You Love About Writing?”

Is your answer the same as it once was?

“If devotion is a river, then I’m floating away.” — Maggie Rogers.

At the end of his delicious book, “The Seven and a Half Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle,” author Stuart Turton answers a series of questions.

The book itself is a brain-bending, plot-twisting mess with a surprising moral conclusion. As a reader, I read the end section because I wanted more answers. And, as a jealous writer, I wanted to rip off his thought process.

I got more than I was looking for.

After the usual unpacking of the characters and themes, the interviewer asked this question:

“What do you love about writing?”

Stuart responded, in a moment of pummeling certainty, with this six-word answer:

“Everything. I love every single thing.”

Let me guess how your life went.

As you grew up, it seemed like every other person had a “thing.” Suzie was a cheerleader and Johnny played football and Juan played chess and Ava was in the drama club.

And you? What was your thing?

You didn’t know for the longest time, right? You couldn’t name anything as “your thing” because it didn’t seem like a thing at all. You didn’t even have what felt like a talent.

You had lines in your head.

You had whispers of an idea.

You had imaginary friends.

In a world of chaos and talkers, you much preferred the solace of your notebook to the noise of the outside world. You escaped to universes that sprang to life by your design. It was magical. Comforting. You loved the unexpected twists of a new idea and then surprising lines that seemed to come from outside your mind.

And then, probably, something happened.

Most people call it life. You called it “a distraction.”

Your reward for writing well is a demand for more writing. The solace became a sentence. You begin to believe (and there are many sources of this belief) that whatever you do must make money all the time. You watch others. They write lists. Should you write lists? Should you write fiction? Nonfiction? Should you become a journalist? A marketer?

This is the Resistance, crafty and shapeshifting as always.

Writing becomes a grind. Have you ever been around something that grinds? Whether it is coffee beans, skateboards, or teeth, the result is always loud and destructive. You twist and torture your talent in chase of the dream. (Whose dream was it again?) You fuss and fight and curse and cry as some darkness chains your wrists to your keyboard and clasps you to your chair, which imprisons you with it time-worn butt print that once used to be so warm and welcoming.

You forget.

You forget that writing is supposed to be fun.

You forget that the keys are supposed to sound like music and new ideas are supposed to feel like lighting. You forget that the proper adjectives are supposed to be what separates you from the mythical monkeys at the typewriter. You forget that writing was — and can be again — a haven from the world’s disappointments. You forget it is your only escape.

So, I’ll ask the same question posed to an author I have never met, but who is giving me invisible inspiration with his answer, oversimplified though it might be.

What do you love about writing?

I hope the answer is:

Every. Single. Little. Thing.