An Anarchist with Tweezers (or Why Writing is Hard)

Friday finds me staring out an enormous steel-grid window, trying to give voice to a character I created 13 months ago.  I can’t decide if she’s a she, or he’s a he, or he-she’s an “it”.  I can’t decide if she speaks in first person or if the stories should be narrator-driven. And if I don’t move forward with him soon, my series of wildly popular children’s books will not have time to generate millions of dollars in “merch” in time to fund my retirement in the Tiny Dream Home.  

A year and a half ago I made the leap to full-time writing. Well, okay, maybe not a leap so much as a giant scissor step. (Mother May I?)  And maybe not so much full-time as “when I find the time.”  But still…I naively convinced myself this would be an easy gig.  After all, I love it. I’ve known since 7th grade English class that I am, inherently, a word person (despite the fact I spelled inherintly, inherantly, inherrently incorrectly three times before resorting to Google).   

While I was mistaken about the simplicity of writing, I still spend my days filling blank pages with words.  Myriad words. Pretty words. Words that make you laugh. Words that make you cry.  Words that make you think. Words that make you feel. 

Or, like today’s offering, words that just make you read for four minutes because it’s Friday and you’re distracting yourself with Facebook and counting the minutes until the weekend instead of finishing up today’s work (or is that just me?).

I’ve been disillusioned how difficult the process is.  I can edit for days on end.  I can mold somebody else’s content or idea into something very readable.  I know my gift.  “Coming up with original content” isn’t one of them, despite my attempts at originality in life. Maybe I’m deluding myself even there.  Really, I just use logic to make life choices, rather than follow mainstream thought. This has branded me a hippie, a progressive, a weirdo, an anarchist (do not read “antiChrist:”) or in my own mind, a salmon swimming upstream. A salmon with great hair. But I digress.

To be more honest, Friday finds me staring out an enormous steel-grid window, giggling at the goofy things people outside do while waiting at the traffic light.  Then again, I just plucked a whisker out of my chin and realized I’m on camera. Lovely.  Plus, I’m sipping an iced mint matcha, which cost me six bucks, and is basically just green tea and milk with a mint leaf garnish.  Whatever.  Writing is hard.