I like to play the piano. I’ve always liked to play the piano. From the first time I sat down, immersed myself in the music, I knew this was something I enjoyed. When I tell people I like to play, they tell me which instrument they got for their 7th birthday, discuss what type of music they enjoy, ask me if I prefer rock to classical, treat me to an anecdote of their brother, a violin and the neighbour’s two cats, or admit that they just bought a drum kit to their nephew. Not once have I been asked if I’ve played the Royal Albert Hall yet.
I like to write fiction. I’ve always liked to write fiction. From the first time I sat down, immersed myself in the story, I knew this was something I enjoyed. When I tell people I like to write, they ask me if I’ve been published yet.
Why is writing measured solely by publishing? My piano-playing skills will never take me to the stage or studio, yet I doubt anyone will ever think that my lessons and hours spent over the keyboard were wasted as a consequence. So why is that the case for writing? What’s so inherently different between writing and other art forms that we presume the former is only validated by external approval, and the latter hold value in and by themselves?
(Royal Albert Hall, courtesy of Wikipedia. Why are you not playing there yet?)