w | writing
Hear me out…
I love writing. I really do. But maybe I love it on my own terms. Is that the same as loving writing? Maybe… maybe not. I love to write what I want to write. Could I ever, though it seems like a great idea, write for a living in a role that requires me to write on a specific topic, not of my choosing? Maybe I could. But I’m not sure. Maybe because I’m not a real writer.
I’ve always leaned toward the belief that a real writer is a published author or one who writes professionally in some other capacity. Is that true? Or is it all a matter of opinion? In a literal sense, if I write, I’m a writer. But in the same sense, if I run, I’m a runner. But I am not a real runner… I’m probably just being chased.
I play around with poetry yet really have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve written fiction since I was a kid but I don’t know if I’m following any of the ‘rules’ (which I don’t believe in anyway). Maybe some of it… the poetry and the fiction… is even good. I don’t know how to judge my own work. I only know if I like it. Does this make me a writer? I don’t know. I never thought so.
Am I just talking myself out of the label writer because I’m too afraid to pursue it? Because I don’t think I could get any sort of writing job? Because I don’t think I’m good enough to be published?
Besides questioning myself far too often, I think the real ‘bitch‘ here is frustration.
When I’m desperate to get words on paper (or screen) and none appear.
When I know I could write if my random mixed up thoughts would coalesce.
When I can’t seem to stop letting every little thing distract me.
When I think I’d be happy if I could get a writing job but then realize that I may hate it or suck at it.
When I am so frustrated that I actually cry over it. (This is, perhaps, not as severe a reaction in me as it might be in others.)
I do love writing. And I hate writing. I guess this is true of almost anything. The love/hate thing. Anything. Except coffee.