Sit down, stare at the keys, make the fingers move and pray to God that something that is of greater value than the pile of animal crap I stepped in while walking around earlier that day is produced on the page. The chances of this are enormously miniscule—an oxymoron that just cements the feeling of stupidity a writer feels when suffering from a concussion developed by charging repetitively into a brick wall placed strategically over the center of the “path of least resistance.” Or at least it was the “path of least resistance” until someone decided to build a ridiculous redbrick wall over the middle of it. Redbrick? Since when had that become the standard for ruining the hopes and dreams of artists wishing to always easily attack some idea and create an epic piece of work from it? Alas, however it had come to pass, it had, and there loomed the redbrick wall forcing the writer off into the terrible brambles of work—actually struggling mentally and exercising the brain to come up with ideas.
Hah! Like that’s daunting! After all, authors pride themselves on being intrigued by those things that are kept dark and hidden off the basic path of thought. But then again the brambles that lay off to the sides of the path are rather intimidating…
Occasional roars reach the ears of the passerby, even a scream once or twice. Those who’ve encountered these obstacles many times before have sometimes found the mauled, inexperienced writer running out of the brambles, screaming. But just because it appears the brambles are the only way to go doesn’t necessarily mean that’s the case.
Writers are famous for their creativity in confronting problems (and infamous for their desire to avoid hard work), so the experienced writer runs his head into the wall a couple of times and then steps back and relieves himself with a smoke, a drink, or a nap. After those tasks are completed he steps back and examines the wall carefully while scratching his head in a contemplative manner. After a few minutes or hours are wasted like this he walks back a few yards to a shop that was off the side of the road. There the writer buys a hammer and a chisel (a jack-hammer if it is available) and goes back to the wall and simply forges a much more simple passage through. Of course this is interspersed with many breaks, drinks, smokes, and/or naps, but eventually the task of creating a hole is completed and the writer crawls through, dusts off his shoulders, and continues on his easy, lazy way.
This is my current attempt at chiseling. Now my chisel isn’t exactly the sharpest of the bunch (my writer’s credit is very small due to the fact that none of my work have managed mass consumption; quite frankly my writing is most often found with its jaws wrapped around the testicles of desperation) so it takes more work than some, especially those famous writers who get to be paid even while they’re taking breaks to scratch their head, nap, drink, and smoke.
Ah… to be such an author would be the best possible thing to ever happen. Even if some of these well-paid writers’ “art” isn’t much better then my own and has only managed to unlock its lips from the monstrous testicles because of the money that fell into their laps.
And there: the chiseling is done. It’s time to stroll along the nicely paved walk lined with flowers.I wrote this short piece a few years ago, and I think many writers can relate to it. There are always those days when you want to write and can't seem to get anything out, and at the same time you feel like your writing may never reach anyone. But as a writer you can't keep from writing, it's an essential part of your life.
Because of how essential writing is to my life I've managed to complete twelve novels, and I'm only 22. Thanks to a friend, William Casey Moreton, I learned that I could share those stories I have written with the world through self-publishing on Amazon.
Now I'm faced with a more daunting task, editting those stories that I've already written. Now with writing you might be able to just chisel a whole in a foot thick wall and then have some time of ease, but editting is like trying to chisel a tunnel the full length of The Great Wall of China. I just finished editting a novel that took me about 100 hours to write, the editting took me over 200!
I've worked a lot of jobs-- food service, instrument cleaner, tile layer, dog groomer, window washer-- but nothing has taken quite as much time and dedication as being a writer. And no matter how much writing you do you always have those days when you feel like a nincompoop.
