Blog 96 - It's Good to Have a Hobby

Blog 96 - It's Good to have a Hobby

November 2025

You know that feeling when you tell someone you’re a writer, and they ask what you’re working on? There’s a split second where you can either launch into the ambitious, world-changing saga simmering in your soul, or you can mumble something about "writing a few blog posts here and there."
Well lately, I’ve found myself doing a lot of mumbling.

It’s insidious, isn’t it? This silent, creeping seduction of the minimalist approach to writing. The idea that you can bash out an occasional blog post, maybe a witty tweet or a thoughtful Facebook caption, and tick the "I'm a writer!" box for the day. And then, presto! You're done. Pat yourself on the back, grab another biscuit, and call it a day of creative triumph.
Oh, how easily I’ve fallen into this trap. I'm essentially a professional dabbler, an artisan of the occasional blog post. I’ll string together a few thousand words to satisfy my writing passion, then sit back and wallow in the self-inflicted stupor that is my world – usually accompanied by a comfortable armchair, a half-finished cup of coffee, and a very compelling Netflix series. And for a fleeting moment, I actually believe I've done something truly significant.
But let me take you back. Way back. To the heady, slightly unhinged days when I first embarked on this glorious, terrifying, utterly captivating writing journey. I was full of it, you know? Full of enthusiasm, drive, and enough raw, unadulterated energy to power a small village. My mental whiteboard was crammed with novel ideas, short story concepts, and grand plans for literary domination. I saw myself as a warrior of words, ready to take on the Herculean task of getting my work out there, getting noticed, getting published.
I remember those days vividly. The scent of fresh-ground coffee mingling with the faint, metallic tang of ambition. My fingers flying across the keyboard, fueled by an almost unbearable flush of inspiration and desire to create. Plot points would unravel in my head during grocery runs, character arcs would reveal themselves in that twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness. I was immersed, possessed, alive. I was writing a novel. A proper, honest-to-goodness novel, brimming with complex characters and intricate plots. It was magnificent. It was terrifying. It was everything.
Oh, how I miss those heady days. The single-minded focus. The belief that every word was a step closer to the dream. The sheer joy of building worlds, crafting dialogues, and inhabiting the minds of fictional people. My bank balance might have been shrinking even then, but my creative reserves felt infinite. Then, reality, like an uninvited editor with a red pen, burst through the door.
It started subtly. A few rejections. Not devastating, just... disappointing. Then a few more. And a few more after that. Each one a tiny pinprick, deflating the grand balloon of my self-belief just a little. Simultaneously, the aforementioned shrinking bank balance began to make more insistent demands. The luxury of spending entire days lost in my fictional universe started to feel… well, like a luxury I couldn't afford.
And then there was the nightmare. The never-ending cycle of edit, submit, edit, submit. It’s like being stuck in a literary hamster wheel, perpetually running but never quite reaching the cheese. The initial thrill of tweaking a sentence or polishing a paragraph gave way to a soul-crushing dread. Every "send" button clicked felt less like an act of faith and more like a desperate plea into the void. The glow started to dim. The Herculean task suddenly felt... well, genuinely Herculean. The inspiration that once flowed like a river began to trickle, then drip, then became an arid, cracked riverbed.
And just like that, without a formal induction ceremony or even a polite notice, I was back. Back in the comfortable, slightly fuzzy land of the "hobby-writer."
This isn't to say there's anything wrong with being a hobby-writer, mind you. For many, it's a perfectly satisfying way to engage with their creative impulse. But for me – for the me who dreamed of literary mountains – it feels like a demotion, a retreat, a surrender. Instead of wrestling with the intricacies of plot and character development for a novel, I find myself meticulously crafting Instagram captions. Rather than querying agents, I'm proofreading emails. The grand narratives have shrunk to digestible snippets. The epic journeys of my imagination have been replaced by the short, satisfying sprint of a perfectly structured blog post – like this one, ironically.
I tell myself it's still writing. And it is. I get to play with words, express ideas, connect with people. It satisfies the immediate itch, provides that little dopamine hit of "I wrote something today!" But deep down, it’s not the roaring fire I once tended; it’s a carefully managed campfire, just enough to keep me warm, but never truly enough to illuminate the ambitious path I once envisioned.
I wallow in this self-inflicted stupor, nodding sagely at my own clever turns of phrase in a fleeting article, then promptly forget what I was even trying to achieve beyond that instant gratification. I'm essentially a literary squirrel, burying nuts of creativity only to forget where I put them, only to discover them months later, slightly stale, in the forgotten corners of my hard drive. It makes me wonder: why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we trade the exhilarating challenge of the uphill climb for the predictable comfort of the plateau? Is it fear of failure? Fear of success? Sheer exhaustion from the relentless treadmill of the publishing world? Or is it simply the human inclination towards the path of least resistance, especially when the alternative involves so much vulnerability and rejection?
A part of me screams for more. It misses the grand adventure. It longs for the days when the story was everything, when the destination was a published book, and the journey, though arduous, was filled with purpose. But here's the kicker, the tiny flicker in the dark: I don't have to stay here. The comfort blanket of the occasional blog post, while warm, is also stifling. The "minimalist" approach, when applied to my deeper creative aspirations, is actually a maximalist avoidance strategy. This isn't just a lament. This is a confession, and yes, it’s also a rallying cry. To myself, primarily, but perhaps to any other accidental hobby-writers out there who recognize the familiar tug of a forgotten dream.
It's time to remember that initial spark. Time to reignite the pilot light that once burned so brightly. It might mean dusting off that old novel outline, staring down the blank page with renewed, albeit slightly terrified, determination. It might mean accepting that the rejections are part of the process, not the final word. It might mean sacrificing a Netflix binge for an hour spent world-building, and it won't be easy. The uphill climb is still steep, the air still thin, and the publishing world still a wild, unpredictable beast. But the essence of being a writer, surely, isn't just about putting words on a page. It's about pursuing the story that haunts you, the message that demands to be heard, the world that begs to be built.
It's a plea for you to join me. Let's ditch the minimalist comfort blanket and reach for the literary Everest once more. Because the heady days of creation, the flush of inspiration, the sheer desire to tell a big, beautiful story... they were worth every ounce of effort then, and they're worth every ounce of effort now.
Who's with me?