One thing that I’ve learned about writing is that it’s perhaps one of the most frustrating undertakings known to man. Don’t get me wrong, when it’s good it is amazing. But when it’s bad…Let’s just say that there’s a reason why the stereotypical writer is almost always a chain-smoking drunk with a surly attitude.
I’ve decided that this year I would focus more on my fiction endeavors than the past few years and actually work on getting some of my work out there. There’s no point in knowing you’re a good writer if no one else ever gets to read anything you’ve written, right?
Only problem is, I haven’t written much. I have a few story ideas and a couple of pages scattered throughout composition notebooks from here to Dallas, but aside from a few short (read: very short) stories, I’ve not written anything very substantial. At least, I haven’t written anything substantial that I would actually show anyone except maybe my mother.
You see, anyone who tells you that writing is the fun part is a liar and the truth ain’t in ’em. The writing section of the journey is exhilarating, harrowing, exciting, challenging and a host of other adjectives, but it is not fun. It’s perhaps one of the most tantrum-inducing things I’ve ever done. The picking of the perfect word or phrase, the creating of a scene or character are all great but involve second-guessing down to the most minute detail. A painful back and forth inside one’s head that is then played once again on a computer screen or yellow, college-ruled legal paper for eons before it is done.
Downright repulsive is what it is. Sometimes I just want to trash it all and start a new life where I do something mundane (but a million times more lucrative). Writing doesn’t like me, it seems, and I don’t really like it–yet somehow I’m compelled to do it. It will start with the random tidbit of conversation I hear while riding the train or a thought while doing something tedious like the day job. That idea flourishes and I’m back in front of my computer trying to coax it into sentences, running back to this love/hate relationship praying that maybe this time will be the one. And maybe this time will be different and you’ll soon be reading my story and I can add the distinguishing title of “PUBLISHED” to my list. Maybe.
A boy can dream, right? *sigh*