I have a love-hate relationship with writing. Today would be one of those days when I hate it.
Today “writing” consists of opening up my G-mail inbox every now and then to see if there’s anything in my Spam folder to empty out. Sometimes I’ll switch between checking Facebook and TweetDeck. In fact, someone just posted this anonymous quotation on Twitter: “Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet.” God is speaking to me through Twitter. Get back to work.
When I’m not busy surfing the internet, I stare off into space and can’t help but hear anything except of the conversation the loud talker at the next table is having on the phone with her mother. I don’t really care when grandpa is coming to visit, but I’m too nice (or passive aggressive) to say anything. Instead I shoot her my death stare behind her back. Her skinny back. All the more reason to hate her.
It’s not like I have an assignment to complete or a deadline I have to meet. I don’t have my editor or publisher breathing down my neck; I only pretend to be a writer and all of this pain is self-inflicted. Perhaps I’m a masochist at heart.
I look through my notes and see what other essay topics I have written on my list. I delete two of them because I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote them down and now they seem like complete shit. My mind feels empty and all I want to do is sleep or watch television, or maybe I’ll pull out that Sedaris book I’ve been reading. Maybe he will spark some creativity in me today.
Maybe it’s too bright and sunshiny to think of anything deep and meaningful to say. The other night my roommate came home while I was writing. It was dim in the house with the fireplace roaring and some sad Sara Bareilles song playing in the background. I think it was also raining outside. I apologized for my “emo” writing atmosphere but explained that this was how I thought best. I’m thinking I may need to be melancholy in order to write, but that seems a bit ridiculous. Surely the best writers and artists aren’t all sad and depressed . . . are they?
So why do it?
On a better day, when I don’t feel like there are a hundred rubber stops blocking all of the good creative thoughts from pouring out, I love to write. I love it because it helps me feel less like a crazy person and more like a thoughtful intellectual; yes, I can actually put words to my thoughts in feelings when I write. Ask me what I think about a topic before I’ve written it all out and I’ll give you a blank stare or worse yet, I’ll ramble off a bunch of nonsense and you’ll wish you never broached the subject. I’m sorry, what was the question again?
I love to write because it allows me to be honest.