Here’s something ironic.
The hardest thing about wanting to be – er wait, I mean, being – a writer…
(…writing coaches keep telling me I need to claim the title of “Writer.” Which is odd, really. Because a Writer writes, right? And I haven’t written a thing in months. But, whatever, they’re the writers and I’m the wannabe so I’ll trust them, I guess.)
Anyway, back to what I was saying.
The hardest thing about being a writer is writing.
Putting words on paper.
Stopping life to write it down.
I seem to find every excuse under the sun to keep myself from putting my ass in a chair and typing away. The dogs need a bath. My toes need to be painted…after I clip them. The yard needs to be mowed. I need to clean out my closet. I should get a run in or shave my legs or finally finish that craft project I started three months ago. I haven’t seen this episode of Downton Abbey yet and that episode of The Blacklist had everyone tweeting about it and I just have to see what all the fuss is about…now.
Other writers will (likely) understand this. For you non-writers, perhaps this is news to you. Whatever the case, know this, my friends. The life of a writer is not all musings and pithy sayings.
[pullquote width=”300″ float=”left”]The life of a writer is not all musings and pithy sayings. [/pullquote]
Nope. The life of a (or, at least, this) writer is H.A.R.D..
Most of the time I can’t even really identify what I’m musing about myself much less put it into words that say anything to anybody else. Nor can I manage to complete an online Writing coaching class (or two). That I’ve paid for. That is supposed to help me break through the nothingness.
I have tried everything. Getting up early. Staying up late. Writing about nothing. Writing about something. Trying really hard. Not trying at all. Writing on a computer. Writing longhand. Drinking water. Reading. Drinking wine. Running. Drinking whiskey. Praying. Drinking vodka. Regretting.
It’s vicious, really.
Because there continues to be this nudge. This push. This feeling deep-down-in-my-gut-that-I-can’t-ignore that tells me to write. I have no idea why. I think if I did, I might have a better chance at actually doing it. The best I can come up with is that I write because I have something to say. The problem is, I don’t know what that “something” is. Not really. Not the big “something.” …it’s just a lot of little somethings that pass through my head and, sometimes, make it to a computer screen.
I can’t quit, I know. And I don’t really want to quit.
I just wish I could manage to move forward instead of being (perpetually) stuck.
But I refuse to give up. I will not be overcome. Because I do have something to say. And even if others don’t want to hear it, even if I can’t yet put my finger on just exactly what it is, there is still purpose in writing. And that is enough for now.