“Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea. They talk about their ‘morning ritual’ and how they ‘dress for writing’ and the cabin in Big Sur where they go to ‘be alone’ – blah blah blah. No one tells the truth about writing a book. Authors pretend their stories were always shiny and perfect and just waiting to be written. The truth is, writing is this: hard and boring and occasionally great but usually not. Even I have lied about writing. I have told people that writing this book has been like brushing away dirt from a fossil. What a load of shit. It has been like hacking away at a freezer with a screwdriver.” – Amy Poehler (via Austin Kleon)
Writing is hard, it’s fun, it’s drudgery, it’s discouraging, it’s life-giving, it’s soul-sucking, etc, etc, etc. Suffice to say it’s a lot of things. On bad days, I wonder why in the world I continue doing it. On good days, I can’t imagine not doing it.
The trouble is, I’m not so sure that the choice is mine to make. Without writing, without an outlet, I get emotionally and artistically constipated. Now, maybe that’s a little too vivid for those reading this blog… oh wait, I’ve forgotten that this place got so dusty that I’d be surprised if bots were still stopping by here. Anyways…
It’s like eating vegetables, particularly the green ones that are the most nutritious. I do it because if I don’t, things will go badly. Along the way, I tend to find these moments when life changes – like when I found the perfect way to bake Brussels Sprouts and began to enjoy the little green buggers. Other times, it’s just something that needs to be done.
It’s like a really good job. Sometimes it’s amazing, sometimes it’s horrible, and most of the time it’s at least pretty good. I don’t get to choose which bit comes along next, I just punch the timeclock and see what happens next.
