Writing as a Hobby: The Loneliest Fun You’ll Ever Have

Writing strictly as a hobby has its pros and cons.

On the plus side, it’s way cheaper than golf or any hobby that requires collecting ultra-rare nonsense from obscure basement shops or conventions. You don’t need a foursome or a partner—just your laptop and a caffeine addiction. There’s no need to wait for decent weather, and unlike other physical pursuits, the odds of spraining something while writing are blissfully low, and the only thing likely to get bruised is your ego after some upstart kid in your group writes circles around you, but enough about my experience bringing my daughter along. Best of all, you can write literally anywhere: coffee shops, bars, park benches, or, if you’re a certified weirdo, alone in your own home.

On the downside, writing as a hobby doesn’t come with perks like an agent, a fanbase, or anyone who’ll clap when you use a semicolon correctly. You might have a friend or partner willing to feign interest at the odd chapter shoved under their nose, but let’s face it, that’s more about love than literary merit. Writing can be a very lonely hobby. Some writers love that. I do not. I was honestly hoping for a small but loyal group of seven or eight supermodels with thick glasses and a knowledge of William Gibson who would follow me around, coo appreciatively as I typed, and whisper things like, “His use of third-person omniscient gives me chills.” Unfortunately, that fantasy appears to be as fictional as my main characters, though I haven’t checked in on Nick Spalding’s lifestyle lately, so I can still dream.

The truth is, I’m not a classic introvert. I just hate small talk and, consequently, most people I meet in coffee shops and bars. So I’m constantly searching for writing groups where mildly neurotic word nerds with above-average intellect can gather, commiserate, and get an Americano in IV form.

Over the years, I’ve tried more than a dozen writing groups, with wildly mixed results. My first was back in the late ’80s on a CompuServe forum run by Joel Rosenberg. I was a high school kid, pushed into writing by an overly enthusiastic English teacher. Joel was a legit published author, and to my teenage brain, everyone on the forum was either already famous or a future Pulitzer winner. I mostly lurked. I read every post with reverence and awe as if Joel were giving a sermon on the mount, but I rarely contributed. After all, I hadn’t earned my trench coat and black turtleneck yet, and was pretty sure I had a successful career as a software engineer ahead of me. These were just my “experimental years.”

Fast forward a few geologic epochs, several Usenet groups, and enough IRC chats to crash three modems, and I stumbled upon NaNoWriMo via the “I Should Be Writing” podcast. It gave me a shot of creative energy and got me back in the writing game. I joined the local NaNo group and immediately discovered I was the only person who hadn’t already churned out five “NaNo drafts.” I call them NaNo drafts or “zeroth drafts” because now that I’ve got a few of my own, I know better than to confuse them with anything remotely resembling a first draft. I also think “draft” is a bit of a misnomer in my own writing methodology anyway. Perhaps I should discuss that in a later post.

NaNo groups are fun, generally diverse, but dominated by veterans who claimed to possess the big secret to winning NaNo (spoiler: it’s mostly “type a lot and avoid going back and editing until you hit 50K”). These were the same veterans who usually dropped out halfway through the month because “life got unexpectedly busy.” In fact, most of the group dropped out halfway through the month. I was actually grateful for the few who stayed for the cookies because they knew it’s all on the honor system anyway. Also, let’s be honest, meeting once a year in the center of a Barnes & Noble during Christmas rush under a sign that says “NaNoWriMo Writers at Work: DO NOT FEED” is not the sustainable community I was hoping for.

After this, I tried a statewide writer group on Discord. At least, I think they were writers. Most of the members were still in high school and preferred talking about video games (which I later found is every Discord group). Also, Discord is the only platform where a simple “hello” can net you seven friend requests from people who will, three days later, get “stranded” and urgently need you to send them gas money via Venmo because they don’t know anyone else. Either way, look, I came to discuss writing, not the narrative arc of Halo, and while we’re on the topic, when I say “vintage RPG,” I mean Ultima III, not Final Fantasy XII.

That Discord group eventually splintered into smaller in-person meetups that attempted to gather in person once or twice a month. The first of those felt like a flash mob. We picked a different coffee shop, date, and time for each session, because heaven forbid someone feel excluded by convenience. We’d show up with laptops, sit together, and … type … in silence … for two hours. Nobody spoke. Nobody shared. Nobody even made eye contact. I tried starting conversations, but it was like talking to NPCs in a game running on broken AI. Several members refused to give their real names, and a couple still wore COVID masks … in 2022 … a full year after even the most diehard germaphobes had moved on. In the end, I’m pretty sure they “Pink Floyded” me (that’s where the group dramatically breaks up, then quietly reunites later without inviting the problematic member … I mean … “Hi!”).

The other spinoff group was basically the extrovert version. They wanted to 1) share work, 2) critique, and 3) support each other’s marketing efforts. What they actually did was 1) let the alpha reader perform dramatic readings of her intersectional feminist dragon erotica (no shade—it was probably great; just not my scene), 2) decry on anyone writing mysteries, thrillers, or romance as “basic” or “unclean,” and 3) complain about the patriarchy in publishing as the reason they weren’t already bestsellers and instead were forced to market their own stuff themselves. I did not last long in this group, being a secret listener for that patriarchy, I suppose. I believe they’re still together, though. Let me know if you want a referral.

Eventually, I found Shut Up and Write, an international organization with local chapters in most major cities. Finally, something that works. I now attend up to four different meetups in a week. The format is consistent: social time, dedicated writing time (the “Shut Up” part), then social time again. There’s no awkward “tell us what you’re working on” unless you want to, and most of the members are social and not allergic to real names.

Best of all, each group has its own vibe. Sunday morning coffee is our flagship. They’re a friendly, relaxed bunch of regulars who all know each other. Monday night coffee is a subset of Sunday, only quieter (we’re all tired, okay?). Thursday night at the Tiki Bar is a different subset, and rowdier—mostly guys, a couple of chaos-loving women, and a lot more banter than writing, plus beer instead of caffeine means you’re going to throw whatever you wrote out the next morning anyway, so lower expectations. The Saturday bookstore group is completely different: serious, structured, and focused. Some of them will sometimes glare at you for typing too loudly, but overall, it’s a more productive session. You can pick your poison and your personal style.

The point is, writing does not have to be like marriage, a lonely exercise in self-doubt and slow emotional collapse. You can get out of the house and enjoy dozens of people you can relate to across dozens of different groups, and one of them probably won’t kick you out. Probably. Get out there and find your people.