The Joy of Writing Got Me Through the Pandemic

Have you ever heard that quote about how writers hate writing, but love having written? Often, when writers talk about writing, especially publicly, it’s a litany of complaints: Writing is grueling, exhausting, terrible, brings you to tears every day; publishing is stressful and migraine-inducing; everything about it is a nightmare.

Sometimes, when I hear people talk like this, I feel like I’m listening to the cool kids’ table roll their eyes and groan about something that I, the overeager kid in the corner, am genuinely excited about. Because while all of those writing struggles are real and true for me, too, at times (especially the part about publishing), the truth is that writing can—and often does—bring me great joy.

When I first started writing, it was simply to see if I’d like it. I didn’t like my job at the time, and I knew I needed some sort of creative outlet—something new to learn, something to engage my mind and my imagination. So I leaped right into writing a book, and found that I loved it. It was hard, sure; it was often frustrating; I had no idea what I was doing most of the time. But I looked forward to my writing time every day.

As I worked on The Wedding Date, my first published novel, sometimes when I was away from it during the day I would get that feeling I’ve had so often in my life, when I’m in the middle of reading a good book and can’t wait to get home and dive back into it. Then I would realize that I was experiencing this feeling about a book I was writing, not one I was reading.

When a book I’m writing feels right, I feel this same burst of excitement—to jump back into the story, to see what happens next, to figure out who these characters really are and what surprises they have in store. It gives me a thrill every time.

I started and finished my sixth book, While We Were Dating, during the pandemic, and I know the only reason I was able to work on it at all was the joy I get from writing. At first, I couldn’t write anything—I warned my agent that there was no way I’d be able to turn in the book I was contracted to deliver in 2020. My mind felt frozen, anxious, terrified. But then I decided that I was going to write something just for me; something I loved; something to keep me company during the hard, lonely months of 2020, as the seasons rolled by and I continued to miss my loved ones.

For a long time, I didn’t even call what I was writing a book—it was just a thing in a notebook that no one but me knew about. It reminded me of those very early days of writing my first novel, when I was writing just for the excitement and joy of it.

And this book brought me so much joy—most of the joy I experienced in those long, difficult months, as a matter of fact. A lot of really hard things happened during that time, and when they did, I would retreat into the world of this book—a world where hard things also happen, but where I got to control them. This isn’t to say writing it was easy; I cried over it, many times, just as I cry over all of my books. But it also made me laugh, smile from ear to ear, and just be quietly happy: a feeling I had so little of last year.

There were multiple days during the pandemic when the promise of getting to write some more was the only thing that got me up in the morning. And there was one glorious evening when I wrote a scene that I loved, that made my soul sing, and that I knew, immediately, was the core of the book. I texted some writer friends right afterward, and they celebrated with me, because they also know how great that kind of moment feels.

I can still feel the high of that night deep in my bones. In the midst of so much fear, disappointment, and loss, it’s the joy I experience when writing that got me through this latest book—and through the last year. So, writers, if you hear people talking about how unbearable writing is and think there might be something wrong with you because you earnestly enjoy it, come over here and sit with me.

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