Writers Unbound

The writer’s work is discouraging. You sit and write for two or three hours and end up with a couple of pages to show, which you will then sit and edit for two or three hours until the pages are reduced to paragraphs. You complete the article, or essay, or chapter. You turn it in. You wait. You check your bank account.
The writer’s work is a long-term investment. You don’t see the pay-off right away. Your friends and peers question the wisdom of it. You defend it to silence the same questions in your own mind. Your resume seems juvenile for a long time.
The writer’s work is full of pitfalls. Too many adverbs. Show, don’t tell. Wrong topic. Not enough expertise. Crunchy transitions when you wanted smooth. Smooth dialogue when you wanted crunchy. A flat character, and she is the protagonist. And she is based on you. Now you feel flat. A stack of writing how-to, freelance how-to, fiction how-to, contest how-to books by your desk. You read an obscure, unpublished writer’s blog instead.
The writer’s work is isolating. Even the librarians are a little scared of you sometimes. Your laptop has a name and a personality. You’re thinking of making it a character in your next novel. You get a kind of hunted look when the phone rings. You crawl under the table if the doorbell rings. You repeat potential character names to yourself in the grocery store. Out loud.
The writer’s work is addicting. You’ve bought at least one ton of coffee in the last year to keep yourself awake, morning and night, so you can write more. You can’t help buying more paper, more pens, and you would buy more laptops if your credit limit were higher. You’re always jotting story ideas down on receipts, envelopes, your arm. Your child has a crisis at school, and on your way there you’re working the story into the plot line. Your husband says something funny and you jot it down for your next blog post. You consider dressing like Elvira for the PTA meeting just so you can write about it. You wish your childhood had been worse so you would have more material.
The writer’s work is never ending. You sway between exhilaration and exhaustion at the number of pages you must produce to produce your major works, win a few contests, and cap off with a few essay collections before you retire at 53, when you will move to Scotland and begin on your memoir. And maybe a writing how-to book.