Last week for three days I lived and breathed among thousands of writers who talked about writing. If you’re thinking, “I would rather have my skull drilled without I understand, completely. After all, I’m a writer.
Writers (me, myself, and I included) are often sullen and moody and off our freakin’ rockers. And we have a predisposition to whininess about our writing. We’re always struggling with our characters, our plot, our landlords, late on the rent again. No money. No respect. No 40lk. If we could do anything else we would. Then why don’t we? I know a lot of you have thought this. If you haven’t come right out and said it. Well, the secret is deep down inside we love it! So, why all the complaining? I don’t know.
Maybe the truth is that we don’t know we love it? Or maybe after years of working three jobs and stealing time away from our families and friends with the only thing to show for it are mailboxes and inboxes stuffed with “we regret to inform yous,” we just forgot how happy it makes us. Yes, we married for love with no prenuptial agreement.
Or maybe the reason why writers are always complaining about their writing is the same reason native New Yorkers are always complaining about New York–too crowded, too cold, too hot, too many tourists. If we sing to the world, “there’s no place else I’d rather be,” everyone would want to move here, and there are already too many damn people crowding the subways.