GIVEN: I like to sit on the floor to work. I like to spread out my crap, lay down if want. Can't do that at a table.
I fancy myself something of a writer. I'm not entirely sure why. I know I feel I communicate better when I write than when I talk. I've never had anything published other than blog posts...never even finished much. Which is why the goal I set for the summer, to finish putting to paper one of my tales is rather outlandish.
So the picture above is what frustration looks like. I write best in notebooks...for the first draft at least. One paper, there's something elementary. But the last few days, the words haven't been coming. So I'd wake up and stare at the mess, and try to ignore it. This shouldn't be this difficult, I thought. Then a little voice said...
Why not?
It wasn't meant as a taunt, but a challenge to my growing pity party. Why shouldn't this be difficult, this writing a book? It made me stop...think, change my outlook. This has been the way of things this summer.
Writing is hard work! It's one of the few art forms that is described by most of it's artists as painful! But then again, most of them have this bizarre drive which makes it more painful not to write. It's really peculiar.
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