The best definition of writing I’ve ever come across comes from Virginia Woolf’s novel, Orlando.  In it, Woolf calls writing “a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice.”  It sounds simple enough.  But for most new writers, including myself, it’s a daunting task.  The problem we face is that we’re still learning how to write—how to convey our thoughts through our writing.  Our voice is still taking shape along with the lines of text we manage to get onto the page.

I suspect that even more experienced writers feel the same intense frustration about the creative process, and for good reason: writing isn’t easy.  We’re constantly doubting our own abilities—if what we’ve written is good or not, if people will understand it, if people will respect it.  The list of worries goes on and on.  So why do we feel compelled to keep doing it, when the odds feel stacked against us?

Our ability to confront this question instead of shying away from it is the key to finding our voice.  If we don’t know why we’re writing, we can’t understand what makes our writing meaningful.  We can consult other writers for advice, those whom we admire and whose work we adore, but ultimately, we’re the only ones who can answer this question honestly.  Only we know why we write.  And no one else can figure it out for us.  It’s a terrifying realization.  But it’s also incredibly liberating, which brings me back to what Woolf was getting at.

To partake in this secret transaction, we must each create our own truths and assign meanings to our experiences.   We must keep going back to answer the voice, even if we’re terrified.