Are You Really 'Destined' to Be a Writer?

The idea of an ineluctable destiny—something people are incapable of resisting because it is ordained—is appealing indeed. It feeds our hunger for a sense of control and order; it gives the illusion of a clear plan, a map through the already difficult maze of life.

To think that some individuals have no choice but to become novelists is, however, I believe, to miss the far richer, deeper, and more complex reality of the novelist’s apprenticeship.

Although there is no single definitive psychological profile for a novelist, certain recurrent traits can be observed.

Writers frequently possess a profound empathy, which aids in their ability to create believable characters. Introspection is common as well; many writers find that solitude serves as a font of creativity. Writers not only have vivid imaginations; they also possess sharp eyes for quotidian and exceptional human behavior.

But, of course, the real trick is not merely to observe but to transform novelistic raw materials into a cohesive narrative. And that requires a problem-solving mentality, a sense of structure, and, often enough, plain old stubbornness.

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After all, the writing life can be as unyielding as it is beautiful.

The routines of successful novelists can often be traced with a pencil and a straight edge. The early morning is their time of solitude, they find. The night is when fortune favors their buzzing energies. Yet for some, writing can hardly be called a routine since the words rarely flow, and when they do, it's in fits and starts.

But still, every novelist must embrace at least some level of discipline; a writer's life is too precarious to leave much to chance. No matter how or when, they must put regular hours in. If they cannot write, they must read.

Van Gogh makes a curious case. Would writing about him in a novel—or, as I have done here, in a non-novel—be an act of draping an imagined world over the real one, of creating a fictional narrative that links one to the other?

Getting published often seems like a path strewn with rejections.

As the inevitable part of getting published, rejections can feel demoralizing. But here's where optimism must come into play: Rejections should not be thought of as failures, but rather as a chance to redirect. Each one can serve as a powerful learning experience that can grow us into the kind of writers who can command a fair hearing and serve a clear purpose in the world of readers and books.

If you're like me, building a "bounced back" resilience can feel almost as tough as the actual writing itself. If rejection can be a fire in the forge of better writing, self-doubt can feel like the same fire in the forge of wisdom.

In the end, choosing to be a novelist requires a person to have faith.

There are no surefire ways to achieve success, but the rewards potential novelists can reap greatly outweigh the risks. When I talk about "rewards," I don't mean things like money or fame; I'm talking about the priceless experiences you can have simply by creating.

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Writing a novel gives you the chance to go deep inside the human condition in ways few other activities allow. It also lets you connect with ... Converse with a character, and you're on the road to conversing with every person who ever picks up your book.

The rewards can be immense; the process can be fun. But becoming a novelist takes time, and it's not easy even if ... even when.