Tuesday, February 4, 2020

Writing is Hard

laptop with lots of stickers on a wooden table

Writing is hard.

I never know how to begin or end. Most times I don't even know what to put in the middle. I just have a feeling or a vibe that I try to get across with black marks on a computer screen and then out in the world for six people to read (I have no idea who you people are, all I know is that I consistently get a minimum of 6 views on whatever I post here). It's hard to get yourself from A to B when A and B are just hazy, abstract ideas and not actually defined locations on a map.

It's easy for me to be confident when others are anxious, but the second I sit at a computer and I'm truly alone with my own brain and own words and no one to entertain, I have no idea what to do with myself.

I wrote back in August that I don't think I'm a writer. Then I proceeded to write 50,004 words of a novel in November for NaNoWriMo. It's almost as if I need to lie to myself then prove myself wrong, trick myself into doing things that seem hard.

I know I need to get words down and send them out into the world, but I always get stuck at how. How do I summon the words, the purpose, the meaning. I read so many words by great writers that always leave me thinking: how the heck am I supposed to live up to that? It's time to give up, throw in the shovel and pick up the plow, start a vegetable garden. I really like cauliflower and squash. Produce something nourishing and useful for me and others.

I guess I'm looking for a calling, for someone to tell me what I'm supposed to do with my life. Maybe if I keep writing, I will eventually be able to tell myself.

I guess the only way out really is through. It be that way sometimes.