What is So Hard About Writing?

You read a lot of stuff about the hard, lonely, lifestyle of writers. The cruel silence of the Muse, the rejection of your work- the end product of months of your blood, sweat, and tears, mind you, by faceless agents who probably barely glance at the first page of your carefully formatted manuscript before tossing it in the can…or, more likely, the faceless agent’s faceless assistant barely glanced at it, before hitting “delete”. You hear a lot about these things, and how hard it is to attain success, to get an agent, to break into that big, beautiful, wonderful world of the published author…which is right down the street from the gated community of the Best Seller’s List Estates.

The truth is, at least for me, I find NOTHING hard about writing. I enjoy the hell out of it- the more I do it, the more I long to be doing it, and nothing else beside it. When I read about how “hard” it is for writers, I can’t help but wonder if maybe they aren’t doing what they ought to be with their lives…Because the saying I heard was “Do what you love.” NOT “Do what you wish you could do, but can’t, until it makes you so crazy and full of despair that you contemplate putting your head in the oven.” Yeah, I guess that quote didn’t catch on. I LOVE WRITING. Even if it all adds up to nothing in the end, even if the only attention I ever garner is a record breaking day of readers on my blog, and the only record broken is my own, I would still love and enjoy it.

What is hard for me about writing is not being able to write. Not lacking the ability or the ideas, but having them bursting forth like some kind of broken water line, and having no choice but to walk out the door and go to work because that is the way it is. My reality is this: If I don’t stop writing right now, at 7:31, and get the hell out of here, I will be late, I will be written up for being late, and a whole chain of events will be started that could ultimately lead to the unemployment line (another stupid cliche that is no longer relevant, huh?) and the poorhouse (I am full of them today.). This is not just an example, I really have to get the fuck out of here. I’ll be back.

Okay, so, it is now nearly nine o’clock at night. I am tired. I am full. I have an entire day’s worth of wear and tear on my formerly crisp and brilliant mind. In some houses, that might not add up to much, but around here, it’s a LOT. I have a teenager, a toddler, a dog, a bunch of cats, and a full time job. Throw in a trip to the grocery store and the assembling of dinner, and that doesn’t leave a lot of time for the stories in my head to be transcribed, does it?

Sigh…but, I will make time. Even though I  won’t think it’s enough until it is the only thing I need to spend my day doing, I will make time. Because if I don’t, it will never, ever get to be the full time job I am hoping to make it. For now, though, I am tapped out. I am going to crawl in bed and wait to hear my daughter pounding on the door, having lost her house key..again. It will happen the second I start dozing off. That’s just the way it goes.

Happy Weekend, everybody.

 

 

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