I think writing makes me happy. I say that I want to write, that I need more time to write, that I miss it when I ‘m not writing.
So, today, I wrote all day. I usually only get to write in bits and pieces these days.
I started around 9 AM. It’s now 5:45. I took a break to put away laundry. I took a coffee break with my husband. I ate while I wrote.
And I don’t feel happy now. I’m frustrated. I’m a little angry (it’s the topic’s fault). I feel unfullfilled. It’s not right, this project. Spending an entire day on it only made it painfully clear to me that I need 30 more days like today to get it right. Maybe 60 more.
And I don’t have that kind of time. I’m busy, you know? And now I’m frustrated that I’m busy. I’m homeschooling. I’m giving my kids a happy childhood filled with love and freedom and awesome memories. At least I think I am.
All that takes time.
On top of that, I have to take time out of my busy day to play with the new kitten in the house.
Go ahead now. Tell me you wouldn’t get distracted by that face. I won’t believe you.
So here I am venting. And wondering. Why do I do this? I love to write. And I hate to write. It’s a first draft thing, I guess.
As Hemingway said:
‘The first draft is always shit.”
Profound. He was seriously right. Now, I’m no Hemingway. I’m not writing fiction about a man and a woman and a war and a cafe with another drink on the way before the sun rises on the cobblestone streets.
I am, however, craving a drink.
I know I’m not the first writer to complain that this art of ours is painful, that it sucks our blood like a teenage vampire on steroids, or curls our intestines in knots like watching Tom Cruise pretending to be a vampire, that writing haunts our thoughts and consumes our lives if we let it.
And then, not only do we let it, we will it to do so.
I have to not will it to do so. But not today. Maybe tomorrow. After I get some writing done.
Thanks then. I feel better now.