I don’t know why I thought I could write every day. I just looked at my week ahead, which is full up to Saturday morning, and I’m wondering where to fit in writing.
Writing is hard, man. Even these little blog posts, which I often post as I wrote them, with very little editing, because I have no time to thoroughly edit them. (I wouldn’t recommend daily blogging if you have a day job and a social life.)
I’m actually a slow writer. Sometimes, like when I do book reviews, it just flows. But mostly, it’s heavy drudgery. The essay I recently submitted to a magazine went through at least 6 drafts, and each poem that I make myself perform takes the entire month we have between events.
When I was younger I just used to write all day. I wrote fiction, even. (Which is the hardest genre of all for me.) I don’t remember doing much editing, only Word documents, 40 pages or more long. A couple of years ago I did NaNoWriMo. I suppose all the fiction I had in me went into that, because I haven’t attempted it since. (And felt bad about it each November I don’t do NaNoWriMo.)
I still do love writing; I’m not entirely sure why, because doing it is no fun. The fun part only comes days, weeks or years later, when I look back and find that some of the words I squeezed out of myself when I felt like an absolute mess of a human being are actually quite good. So I suppose there’s that little bit of rewards. That, and the moments when I perform a piece I wrote, and somebody comes up to me afterwards and told me how relatable it was. Those are the moments.