Today I’m going to write about how sick I am of writing. I was talking to friend earlier and a little, often voiced, moan slipped out. A moan along the lines of how difficult is was to find time to write. Followed by the other, also familiar, moan about not managing to make a name for myself in the literary scene (I feel like a bit of a twat when I talk like this and yet I still do). Anyway my very good and intelligent friend said that she supposed the important thing was to make sure you enjoyed it and then if you got published then, wow, it was like an amazing bonus or something. Of course my face instantly fell.
I then felt obliged to explain, kind of to my detriment, that I didn’t actually enjoy writing exactly. I just felt like I had to. She looked puzzled for a moment, so I expanded. It’s not that I hate the actual act of writing, that would make life pretty tricky. But I certainly couldn’t say that I always enjoy it. It fact it causes me far more worry, stress and general moodiness than probably anything else in my life. The thing is that when it works it feels amazing and good enough by far to forget about all the not so fun parts.
Around this point in the explanation her face lit up. It’s like going to the gym she exclaimed. And while I’ve never been to the gym (for shame) I had to admit she hit the nail right on the head as far as I see it. You both dread and look forward to doing it, the beginning is a bit of a struggle until you get into the rhythm of it (and some days you just can’t), but normally you start to feel good as you get further into the session, and when it’s a good one you know it. And nothing can beat the satisfaction of knowing that you’re done and a rewarding little adrenaline high ensures you’re already thinking about the next time you knuckle down. So I guess that my conclusion is that I hate writing the way that I would hate going to the gym. If I even went to the gym that is.