Sometimes, writing can be the most invigorating, amazing job in the world. You get to be as free as you want when a story is bubbling in your head, and how refreshing is it to be able to start on a nice clean fresh piece of paper? Very.
On the flip side, it can also be extremely lonely, alienating to the point of pushing your own family and friends away to satisfy the burning desire that burns in the stomach of anyone who knows what it’s like to hold a whole plot or even a poem that’s itching to be penned in their heads for a certain amount of time.
I’m certainly surfing the flip side at the moment, and feeling, “is this really worth it in the pursuit of a few more pennies to fill the coffers?!”. I usually deal with pressure surprisingly well, and as the last two years have shown am resilient in the face of attack.
Does this momentary lapse in confidence within myself make me a weak person? Certainly not.
Life experience is what makes a writer. Sure a talented 16-year-old can write a wonderful tale about love on an epic scale and heartbreak, but in my honest opinion, a 33-year-old having lived a few more years can weave it into the tapestry with a pen in an experienced hand that will be far richer. I may be overawed by comments from teeny boppers now who disagree, but look at the facts, how many teenage authors are there?
I never do the Carrie Bradshaw esque column on my blog for a reason, it’s for poetry, but this undeniable itch played in the depths of my dark, dark brain this morning which culminating in writing this post.
I need to strike a balance.
All work and no play makes Shan a dull girl.