Writing. As many will point out, it is work if you want to be published or make a quasi-living at it. You have to meet deadlines, talk to people (texting does NOT count), meet “quotas” in word counts, and have a better than usual working knowledge of the English language.
You need to budget your money, hope you have an understanding partner if one is present, and manage your time skills. You have to be polite and keep a smile when you would rather smack the snot out of someone. You must develop a thick skin, because not everyone will love your work as much as you.
IE, you have to adult. And adult big-time. (Hush, you. I know the word is not a proper verb -yet. Just go with me on this.)
What brings this up? I am editing a work I wrote many years in hopes of getting it published. And I find I am filled with…..
1.a feeling of fear or agitation about something that may happen.“the men set off in fear and trepidation”
I am full of fear. It has great potential. The characters are realistic (at least to me) and I think others can relate to them; the plot is sound and the magic system solid. I think my twists are good and unexpected. yet there is so much wrong. I tremble at the amount of work required to make this happen.
As an adult I know the work needs to happen. Yet my inner grown up trembles, saying, “You’re not good enough. Time to get real and drop this nonsense.”
And here is the crux of the issue. As I read it, despite the red ink flowing ankle deep like a sign of the end times, I remember the joy I had plotting it out. My heart sings as it recalls when the story took over and became something new, yet still *my* story. I fell in love with my protagonist, antagonist, and all other characters.
My inner-child still squeals when I am reading it, saying, “GOOOD!” (Of course, I heard it Palpatine’s voice. I am SUCH a twisted thing.) My imagination-side can still see the clouds over the graveyard, smell the burning flesh, feel hope and dismay for the characters.
And here is the dichotomy of being a writer, of being any type of artist: we are by nature bi-polar. So what the hell is the point of this meaningless ramble?
Simple. Too often I see people who are all OR nothing; black OR white; one OR the other.
To be an artist/writer requires you embrace both sides. The adult who is never satisfied, but knows when enough is enough. The grown-up who can set the discipline needed to do the work.
And the inner child who can dream. The one who can feel the world outside the known. The one who give the adult the impetus to make the dream happen.
Without both, the dream and reality fail.
Thank for putting up with my ramblings. See you soon, I hope. 😉