If it hurts, you’re probably doing it right.
This applies to plenty of life’s situation. Getting in shape. Therapy. Paying bills.
Another one is the act of writing. If the word choice of “hurt” makes you cringe a little, try “uncomfortable.” If it’s uncomfortable, you’re probably doing it right. We can also try: If writing hurts, or is uncomfortable, or inconvenient, or doesn’t come easy, or requires you to get up too early, or stay up late, or takes years to master, or sacrifice something that’s easier and quicker, you’re probably doing it right.
Face it - Writing is difficult. And though as writers we dwell in writing circles which can give us the false impression that there are lots of writers in the world, it’s simply not true. Writing is so difficult, most people in the big old world simply don’t do it. This isn’t meant to be discouraging. It’s meant to be bolstering to those who do write and would take up the mighty pen. Just don’t think it’ll be painless and that stretching those metaphorical muscles won’t cause us some soreness along the way.
Sitting with the blank page is a frustrating act of love. The little flashing curser mocks our many blockages. Dares us to type without anything “worthy” to say. Dares us to sit down without a plan. With only fifteen minutes, rather than an entire, blissfully relaxed, uninterrupted morning. Dares us to write out of our genre. Dares us to try another style. To tell the truth. Or to lie. Or mix the two. To build worlds hitherto unimagined. Hell, dares us to even sit down at the desk.
We ask ourselves: What could I possibly have to write?
I can’t answer that question. I know this much. You won’t know until you write.
I know you can write without knowing where to start. Or where to end. Or what the middle ought to be. Or what your characters will tell you about themselves. I know you can make observations about the world. Especially about parts of the world you know well. You can write about what you know. I know you can read for examples and inspiration.
o, yes, the pleasure of writing comes with some pain. We know this, yet fall upon our sharpened pens willingly. Bleed ourselves out for the world to see in drops on the reluctant page. We call ourselves writers. We often claim that we write because we can’t not write. Let’s be about the painful business it, shall we – at least we’re all in good company.
This applies to plenty of life’s situation. Getting in shape. Therapy. Paying bills.
Another one is the act of writing. If the word choice of “hurt” makes you cringe a little, try “uncomfortable.” If it’s uncomfortable, you’re probably doing it right. We can also try: If writing hurts, or is uncomfortable, or inconvenient, or doesn’t come easy, or requires you to get up too early, or stay up late, or takes years to master, or sacrifice something that’s easier and quicker, you’re probably doing it right.
Face it - Writing is difficult. And though as writers we dwell in writing circles which can give us the false impression that there are lots of writers in the world, it’s simply not true. Writing is so difficult, most people in the big old world simply don’t do it. This isn’t meant to be discouraging. It’s meant to be bolstering to those who do write and would take up the mighty pen. Just don’t think it’ll be painless and that stretching those metaphorical muscles won’t cause us some soreness along the way.
Sitting with the blank page is a frustrating act of love. The little flashing curser mocks our many blockages. Dares us to type without anything “worthy” to say. Dares us to sit down without a plan. With only fifteen minutes, rather than an entire, blissfully relaxed, uninterrupted morning. Dares us to write out of our genre. Dares us to try another style. To tell the truth. Or to lie. Or mix the two. To build worlds hitherto unimagined. Hell, dares us to even sit down at the desk.
We ask ourselves: What could I possibly have to write?
I can’t answer that question. I know this much. You won’t know until you write.
I know you can write without knowing where to start. Or where to end. Or what the middle ought to be. Or what your characters will tell you about themselves. I know you can make observations about the world. Especially about parts of the world you know well. You can write about what you know. I know you can read for examples and inspiration.
o, yes, the pleasure of writing comes with some pain. We know this, yet fall upon our sharpened pens willingly. Bleed ourselves out for the world to see in drops on the reluctant page. We call ourselves writers. We often claim that we write because we can’t not write. Let’s be about the painful business it, shall we – at least we’re all in good company.
