That’s the truth that not many understand, and the truth that those who write feel.
Writing is not beautiful. Writing is coffee stained, ink smudged notebook papers full of ineligible scribbling. Writing is knowing the perfect word and being forced to use ten in its place and losing the concentration because your brain isn’t cooperating. Writing is killing your favorite character, even though you cry as you do it. Writing is knowing that this scene took so long to create, but it has to be discarded for the good of the entire novel.
Writing is stealing tape, outlining, judging others’ works, judging your own works, feeling inadequate, sticky notes, taking up closet door space for maps and outlines and how all of the characters are connected. Writing is banging your head on a desk trying to figure out how it all works out, and why you can’t just write a murder mystery. Writing is figuring out the balance of what you want and what won’t work.
Writing is also being green with envy that Scott Cawthorn is a New York Times #1 bestselling author just because his book was about Five Nights Freddy’s (not to mention that everyone thought it was a pretty bad book).
Writing is having a brain that’s wired differently, making the author more susceptible to depression and anxiety. Many studies have shown a link between being an author an mental illnesses.
Writing is being completely different, but learning to be okay with it.
Writing isn’t beautiful. It’s the painful art of creating something beautiful.
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