I’ve been working hard on the same story for months. Years, really. I know I’ve mentioned that before but sometimes it’s hard for me to get my head wrapped around. My thesis has consumed every bit of me and there doesn’t seem like an end in sight. The goal has been to write out fifty pages every week, which is an ambitious goal. Sure, I write quickly, but that much output is exhausting.
A long time ago, I loved this story. Every moment I worked was electrifying. There would be so many ideas firing off in my head at once that I would have to walk around my house and act scenes out just to conceptualize them properly. Growing older and accepting the fact that I wanted to purse writing as a career, I have found that creativity and energy for the craft strike me less and less.
Now, most good writers will tell you that inspiration is bullshit. Writing is a job like anything else. You sit down and write. Most of what you crank out isn’t good, but the practice will make you better. Eventually. I wish I could tell you that this wasn’t true, that genius will come upon you like lightning…but I can’t. It doesn’t.
I’m tired of writing. Between the edits, rejection letters from journals, struggling with the overly-competitive and petty nature of the creative community, and talks with my adviser, I’m exhausted. That then begs the question: Do I have the salt to be a real writer? Two years ago I would have told you yes in a second. Now, though? God, I just don’t know. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Okay, I KNOW I’m being dramatic; but at some point, something has to give. At some point I have to decide whether or not I’m in this (this being the writing scene).
Ultimately, I know I want to be a writer. It’s literally the only thing I’ve ever sincerely wanted. I work hard for it. I have thousands of pages of work attesting to my progress. It’s a real and tangible journey. I guess I can’t do my younger self the disservice of giving up now. I guess it’s time to drink a cup of coffee and get back to work.