“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” – Thomas Mann
Indeed. Being a writer sometimes seems to be more of a curse than a blessing.
I hate writing. I hate the frequent compulsion I have to write, especially when an idea strikes me at a time when I can’t write (e.g. I have a test to study for) or when I really don’t want to write (e.g. at 1 AM when my body is begging for sleep but my mind insists on thrashing restlessly with thoughts that beg to be put down on paper).
I hate writing. I hate the fact that my apartment can be a mess, but my writing must be pristine. I hate obsessing over every word, every comma. I wish I could be like non-writers who throw together a paper or blog entry in a functional, presentable way, but don’t care if it is beautiful as long as it gets their point across. I believe Mr. Mann would agree.
I hate writing. I hate when it don’t turn out like the way I wanted it to when I thought of it first. I hate when the melody of words I heard in my mind crashes into a cringe-worthy cacophony of broken notes on the screen. The second sentence in this paragraph is an hyperbolic demonstration of this sad occurence.
So, you may ask, why do you write? You’re pretty average, pretty run-of-the-mill as far as writers go. You’ll never make real money off it. You’ll never earn a Pulitzer.
I know. And here’s the answer:
As much as I hate writing, I write because I love to write (but the explanation of that is gonna hafta wait for another post).
Made for Eternity 