Writing sucks and you’re right. It’s hard and it painstakingly takes a lot out of us mentally and physically. I would know, because I’m trying to write a novel too. And why do we stick with it when we wish we had never even started it in the first place or regrett being born with thar burning passion? To me it’s pretty simple. I see it as challenge to prove to myself that I am capable of more than I think I am. I see it as a way of feeding my soul with success that comes deep within me. But above all I see it as something that I love to do ( though I hate it sometimes) I see it as something that I cannot live without. I see it as a weapon that I can use to make a change in this world. I now have a meaning and purpose to my life.
I am trying to write a novel and it sucks.
It sucks for all the reasons I’d expected: the weeks and weeks of writer’s block, the stilted clichés that sneak out the moment you’re not vigilant enough, the grinding frustration of trying unsnarl a set of words that for whatever reason just won’t do what you want them to do. I knew about all that stuff and, on some level, was prepared for it; after all, these are all things that I’ve experienced to some degree as a semi-professional freelance writer. What I wasn’t ready for was my inability to justify writing a book. Every time I open that goddamn Word document all I feel is this rush of ugly panic, and the cloud of oh my god what am I doing why am I doing this displaces every confident thought I’ve managed to muster up.
Here’s what I’ve realized: I am afraid of…
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