No Joy in Writing

Though I am a true writer, I think it is important I say this: writing is not fun. I doubt it ever will be. It is lonesome, frustrating, difficult and all-consuming. So why do I do it? Why do I spend hours of my time miserably trying to write down those perfect words? Why do I put myself through something that gives me total unrest? Because my dear, sweet reader, I will suffer all the more if I do not.

Writing, in any way, shape or form, forces us to face our thoughts. That is the purpose. Our thoughts are born in our head, pushed down our neck, sliver down the arm, onto the fingers, through the pen and finally onto paper. Once there, we cannot escape them. We cannot deny them. Whether good or bad, smart or dumb, those words are our thoughts. No one else can think them but us.

The good news is that writing our thoughts is an immediate release of pressure. Almost like they were trying to escape our heads in the first place. I cannot sit idly by while these bionic, supercharged, jittery thoughts bounce in every direction, pushing against my skull. They must be released and transferred to paper. That is my reason for writing.

Let us now discuss the consequences of writing: Lonesome, frustrating, difficult and all-consuming.

Writing is lonesome. It is a solitary process allowing only enough space for one: the writer. My process of writing is as lonesome as they come. I write my best when locked up in my room, preferably at night when all other beings are unconscious. Others are only a distraction. They cannot help me with my own thoughts. I find myself lonely, yes. But as the proverb goes, “for all great things a sacrifice must be made.”

Writing is frustrating. The problem with writing is that, as we have already established, the words will always be our own thoughts. Sometimes complete, but not very often. Incoherence is more like it. You’re in your head 24/7, tell me, what do you see? Hard to describe? Yes, I know. Our minds are infinite containers filled with millions of thoughts; completed, broken, beginning, divided, imaginary, multiplied. (Imaginary thoughts are those pesky ideas you once conceived but never fully formed. They were almost there but cannot be recalled.) The process of writing challenges us to piece together those millions of thoughts and make sense of them. You can see how it would get frustrating.

Writing is difficult. It is an intellectual process much like the study of math or science. Schooling is involved in creating progress, either of one’s own accord or by an educational system. For those looking to excel in writing I would suggest both. Writing comes with its challenges. At times, it is likely the writer will want to give up. But just like the marathon runner pushes through the pain in his knees and the shortness of breath, the writer too must push through the indecisiveness of words and lack of inspiration. A good writer must force his or her hands to move and create words then foster those words. Upon mastering this, he or she will be pleased with their perseverance. Just like the marathon runner.

Writing is all-consuming. I feel a thought in my head growing and growing. It could be a great idea or it could be plain old bullshit. Problem is I will never know until it is fully developed. For any development to occur, the thoughts must be organized and presented as evidence on paper. I must stay with each thought all the way through. The thought, whatever it may be, is in my head waiting to get out. Again, I will be in my room writing, thinking, and writing some more. No company, no break, and certainly no joy. I know others are outside. I can hear them through my window. Playing, laughing, talking. Yes it does sound like fun, but I do not care. All I can think about are mastering those thoughts, grabbing hold of each one and piecing them together. Writing is all-consuming.

It does not sound pleasant. I told you it wouldn't. There is no joy in the process of writing only because the joy comes in the end. The finished product, the opus, the masterpiece. That is what writing is all about. That is my purpose. When it all comes together and my compilations of words have completed their purpose that is when I am content. It is at the end when I am rewarded for the isolation, frustration, labor, and frenzy.

I find no joy in the process of writing. I find joy at the end of writing.