I’ve been writing for what, eleven years now? (Not counting the days I couldn’t write and just told stories to myself.) Five years since I started taking writing seriously (meaning: setting aside a part of the day and setting a word count).
But like, not till now do I realize something. I knew it in theory, but it hit me this year.
Writing is hard.
Let us just sit there and let that weigh in *leans back with a cup of tea*
Here are 3 thoughts and reasons why.
1: High School
Yay, I graduated last year. Let’s skip that story (too long and complicated for this blog post).
BUT, I am no longer in high school. I’m no longer in school. I’m in the “real” world. I’m in the workplace. Which unexpectedly changed my view on writing.
I’m a writer (ok, that’s been established). Writing was never my “hobby” it was always my “calling.” Now it’s something else.
It’s my job. And…it’s a job that’s never finished, which means I am working all the time.
2: It’s messy.
Some people say that the cliche of a writer’s desk being scattered with papers, note books, old books, and coffee stains (am I the only one who spills coffee on their floor all the time?) is not functional. Well, it’s really not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.
If you could have seen my room a few days ago.
Oh hey! We have photos!
So, staying organized is a huge challenge and could write about 5 posts on it.
3: It’s Never Done.
I mentioned this up above, but I want to mention this again. Why do I never stop “working”? Because the job is never done.
The novel isn’t finished.
The short story isn’t finished.
Something still needs to be edited.
And something always needs to be written.
Yeah, I can set word counts, I can set deadlines, I can get published. But there is always something more to be done. I could write 24 hours a day and seven days a week, and I still wouldn’t run out of stuff to do (I might like, die though).
There it is. Writing is hard and it’s alright to admit that. So sit back, nod and admit that your work is hard, and give yourself a pat and keep at it.
Peace out, Bernadette