Sometimes I read rants from Catholic fiction-writers in which they complain about the sorry state of public taste, the commercial concerns of philistine publishers, the dearth of genuine (?) spirituality and/or piety of the reading public, etc. What the rant really comes down to is: Why am I doing this?

 

Now, I have very little patience with people who make mystical noises about “Art,” which is in quotation marks because once you get mystical about it, it ceases to be art. The surest way to trivialize anything is to divinize it. So, that crowd (described in an earlier post about “literary noise”) aside, it may be worthwhile to think about why you’re writing fiction and what you hope to accomplish, rather than just rant.

 

I began writing fiction in 2006, when I was already old. I was surprised when my first short story was accepted, but when my second, third, and fourth! stories were also accepted, I was scared. Whoa. Wait a minute. What was the meaning of all this? I went into a period of some serious fretting and ultimately decided writing wasn’t a spiritually healthy thing to do. It was vain, selfish, and egotistical, and I would have no more of it.

 

I told a writer friend about my decision. He (more devout than I) protested and argued. And the characters continued bothering me as well. Moreover, my prayer life did not improve when I stopped writing, quite the opposite, really. So—okay. I would write fiction, but I was also going to have to figure out where it would fit in my life, what I wanted and expected from it—all that sort of thing. Bit by bit, each area of concern was dealt with, and questions were answered.

 

Except one: the why question. People can say things like, “I enjoyed your novel.” They can compliment, encourage, but that kind of response is what one might hope for if one writes pop fiction—which is great stuff—I read it all the time. But it’s not what I write—nor is it why.

 

Recently, someone reviewed Treason on Amazon. I appreciated all the other good reviews (13!) but this one was different. Treason is a novel about ordinary, unknown, non-canonized people who tried to live in hope in hopeless sixteenth-century England. This reader provided more than another good review; she provided the reason for writing the novel—the why. I’ll probably never encounter this again, but this once might be enough:

 

“I am an American with an English-Scottish heritage. My family must have [left] the Catholic faith long before they set sail and landed here in the late 1600s…..When I converted to the Catholic faith 33 years ago, my family practically dragged me off to the Tower…..

This story felt somehow familiar to me personally. More than any other historical fiction set in this place & time period, (and I have read many) my heart resonated with each of the characters. I know them. These are my own people. I don’t think I can describe how this little story has moved me….it has birthed a new sense of peace, a resolve, deep inside. [It} depicted real people, with real fears, real loves, real struggles, real virtues, in the midst of being so very ordinary.”

 

So that’s why.