I posted this the other day on the Facebook. I know, I know, it’s Facebook. Fine. You’re right, ma’am. You’re right.
This is what it’s like for me being a writer.
Writing books is brutal work. It’s not brutal like coalmining. It’s brutal in a different way. Maybe something to do with re-organizing angels standing on the head of a pin. You can’t nudge them. You have to nudge them. Angels don’t exist. Yes, yes, Angel’s do exist. You have to walk three miles to get to the coffee shop where the pin is. You’re excited to nudge the angels. Until you sit down. Then you’re exhausted. And you have to walk the three miles home!
People tell you that you’re organizing the angels the wrong way. You tell them there’s no such thing as angels. They suggest a teacher, a book, a writing class, more yoga, less yoga, or stronger coffee. No one will suggest no coffee.
Then, you get the angels organized, and you take your spectral camera and take a picture. Most people ignore your picture. Some people love your picture. A few people give you a one-star review. “Less angels. More demons.” Or…”I liked it, except for the pin part. Maybe a sardine can next time.”
I then think, taking this into the first person, that I shouldn’t be trying organize angels on the head of a pin. I should do something else. I ignore the praise, the money, and the five-star reviews. This is too hard. I shouldn’t be doing this.
Then? I look at a picture of the angels I took a few months before. I don’t know how I was feeling at the time. I don’t remember how my back hurt, or how far the coffee shop was, or any of that. I simply look at my picture, of those angels, and I cry. Because I love it. You don’t have to love it. But I love it. And I was born to do this. I was born for the work, and the isolation, and the bullshit. Because book writing is mostly bullshit.
And that is what what it’s like to write books.
