Writing Isn't Easy

http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.kr/2014/01/writing-isnt-easy.html

Like the blog post linked above says, it is a very common misconception that writing is something 'easy'. This is a phrase I take with a great amount of amusement and my muse takes with a passionate tirade at the ready. That being said, please grant me a minute to take some... preemptive measures.

Alright, now that I've sorted out that little mess, time to get serious with this blog post.

Yes, writing is hard. I might have misled some people around me with my ramblings of stories and fawning over my own characters and the sheer number of embarrassing, obsessive moments they have caught me in, but enjoyment does not mean that writing is easy.

Writing most certainly is not easy.

It is anything but easy, and moments that they are easy are normally either on a caffeine high or a new stage of sleep deprivation. Most of the time, I end up frustrated and leaning head into hands in internal agony, silenced by the fact that I am supposed to be doing other work and screaming in aggravation would draw attention to the fact that I am not in fact doing said other work.

Sometimes I end up slamming Tico closed or chucking away the pen (only if it's cheap), and walking away for a good hour or two. Sometimes days. More than once, I've fallen into insecurity about my writing style or story ideas or characterization, how my thoughts are too immature, too narrow-minded, too unfocused, etc. etc. etc. I could fill a whole hard drive with a list of the negative thoughts I have about my writing at times.

All that drama and I'm not even trying to get published yet.

Ah, the stress once I start trying, now that is a terrifying thought.

However, despite the additional stress that writing as a craft may give me, I cannot imagine giving it up. Ever. Writing is hard. It is the only thing I have ever done with my life that requires this much diligence and determination from me. People who think of writing as a pastime is another shade of passion, but the people actively seeking publication devote so much of themselves to the act that I find it amazing. I find all published authors, even if subject content is met with disapproval or notoriety, worthy of respect simply because they survived the process.

Writing is hard, and somehow that fulfills me. I want to finish my first novel of quality. I want to mail that first manuscript. I want to get that first rejection letter. Writing is hard, but that's part of the charm. The amount of heart I have to put into the words I scribe, the stories I tell, in hopes that I'll be able to make another person, even just one person just feel something, is extraordinary. I sometimes don't think I have it in me.

That's when I sit with a cup of tea and fresh strawberries or yogurt and have a long chat with my muse. That usually sorts me out and clears my head. Ah, it seems I've veered off topic. Here I was trying to elaborate on how and why writing is hard, but it's turned into a blog post about me instead.

My sincerest apologies for that.

A Summer Dream

(A part of a short story collection of mine titled Injection. This is simply one of many that I wanted to share with the growing views of this blog.)

I have heard that once, back when the internet was new and technology still scarce, rich or poor, privileged or not, everyone was able to dream.

Why was that right not protected?

A Summer Dream

                                                

He did not feel remorse.

It was neither a psychological condition nor a twisted code of morals. I was familiar with those, and what drew me to him was that he was different. Different from other criminals. Different from other people. Different from myself.

I was drawn to that inexplicable allure of impulsivity, the unpredictable nature of both his character and the life he led. He lived a complicated life in a simple world where sensible humans desired simplicity.

This profession and position exists because it is simple. Being a lawman, after all, is ridiculously simple. There were rules in place in the world and what a lawman did was uphold those rules. Like things should be, there is no grey area. The rules are adhered or they are broken. No bending. No loopholes. My job is to apprehend and punish those who break them.

By the time his case came into my hands, he’d become quite renown. Robin. That’s what he called himself, at least. His government-registered name was equally simple but quite different.

Though I hold pride in my mnemonic aptitude, it fails to linger in my memory. If anything, I’d cite the cause to that encounter – my first and last encounter with thief called Robin.

Lullaby of the Universe

Sweet little child, so lost and dear

Come closer; I’ll remove that fear

I’ll cut it from your tortured heart

And make it so t’was never here

Instead, on a journey you’ll depart

And seek for yourself a brand new start

A beginning with which you’ll make an end

To the delicate story, a fragile art

And on this voyage I will send

An anguished soul to make amends

Yes, the one who caused you pain

The one who once you called your friend

However, this now is your domain

Just pen the end and erase the stain

Forgive or not’s your choice to make

To set him free or lock his chains

But in the end, for your sweet sake

Your heart and will, I’ll pluck and take

This choice will be not yours at all

There are greater things at play, at stake

So heart of my dear, just go to sleep

Your soul I’ll guard, emotions keep

And on this journey, in your stead

Your body will the torment reap

So worry not your little head

Forget these words that I have said

Ignore the screams that you have heard

And slumber, peaceful, without dread

((This is basically the summary of the book series I am currently writing. It might not make sense to some people, but it will when I'm done with the novels themselves.))