|Photo credit: tonystl on Flickr|
This time, it’s about writing.
As a writer, it goes without saying that I (usually) enjoy writing. Turning a wisp of an idea into a fully plotted, tangible novel is an incredible experience and I love so many things about it—from discovering new characters and worlds to surprising yourself with an unexpected plot twist, to watching a skeletal first draft develop into a complex, nuanced novel—writing can be truly amazing. This is the good.
But writing can also be an excruciatingly difficult experience. There are days—weeks, even—where it’d be easier and more enjoyable to sit through 48 hours of Teletubbies re-runs in the desert while attempting to find a particular grain of sand (don’t ask why there’s a television in this desert. There just is.) than to write a single paragraph. Or sentence. Or word. This is the bad.
There are moments when you look at the WIPs you’ve been slaving over for the last x years and wonder if you’ve wasted your time, if you’ll ever get published, if it’s worth spending another minute trying to do this writing thing. There are times when you’ve rewritten a manuscript three times and you think you’re finally finished, only to receive an edit letter or critique that requires you to rewrite it again. Then there’s rejection. Form “thanks but no thanks” letters. Manuscripts piling up in your drawers. Amazon e-books that don’t sell.
This is the tortuous.
No, writing isn’t all mounds of sugar, rainbows and bunnies, but to me, the good far outweighs the bad. I’d happily slog through a couple more decades of doubts, rejections and shelved manuscripts just to experience the joy of discovering a new story and meeting new characters and knowing those words marking the page are mine.
There’s something special about that. Something I won’t ever give up.