This is what authors do. We sit on our bums for hours and hours. Then the next day, we sit on our bums some more. I have had desk jobs and office jobs, but I don't think I have sat on my bum with any job as much as I do as a writer. Sometimes I think of everything I can to avoid hurting my poor, complaining bum, like washing my car by hand, or going for a long slow walk in the melting sun.
Then there is the mental exertion behind writing. Some days are easier than others. Some days build me up. Others wear me out. But either way, after 16 hours of bum sitting and mind laboring, I am tired, and tired of sitting, and I don't feel quite human. It is strange. It is like wandering around a grocery store when you are really hungry, but nothing looks appetizing.
When this becomes a daily pattern, I came to the conclusion that writing is really hard work. I think the only people who can really write are the people who can't help themselves.
Because the joy of putting everything into words is. . . is. . . there are no words for it.
No Weak Voices!
5 hours ago
2 comments:
I like your comment on, "I think the only people who can really write are the people who can't help themselves."
I suppose I would fall into that, because if I don't write something at least every couple days I get cranky that I am not accomplishing anything regardless of whatever else gets done. Writing has to get done. And some days a certain amount has to get done not just a couple sentences but at least a chapter or 2.
Probably why so many writers have also been fanatic walkers. I USED to be a fanatic walker, but that was back in northern California where the weather is perfection. I move to Utah, complain constantly about the wind and the heat/cold/people watchng me out their windows/traffic/kids everywhere/loose dogs/and no time. I'm still working on it. I not only want to be a writer, but a walker once again. the writing is going better than the walking.
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