I just knocked out a major deadline for the month. It wasn’t my only deadline by far. But it was the most intense. And I did it by missing a meeting today, for which I was already missing my day job. But as things turned out, my son was sick and stayed home from school. While he’s almost, I say almost, to the age where he could stay by himself, when there’s potential puke involved, we’re just not quite there.
But I digress.
What I’m realizing is this: writing is hard.
I mean, sure I can sit down and ramble and talk about things I know, things that are important to me, issues in which I believe.
But when I’ve got a set subject, a set amount of words and a deadline, it’s work.
I have a dream that one day, and yes I’m counting, I’ll be doing this full time. But I know that dream only happens if I’m willing to write the stuff I don’t always want to.
Darn it.
I mean, it won’t always be fun. I can’t always be poking fun a liberals, or writing contemplative posts on faith or even talking about the kids or the animals or the house that needs so very, very much work.
Sometimes I’ll have to talk about widgets, and transmissions, and theories, and more. And I’ll do that because someone wants to pay me to do so.
Writing isn’t easy.
I’ve been working at this craft for more than forty years. I’m getting better, but I’m not great.
Maybe I’ll never be great. But I have to be consistent. And stubborn.
Sometimes that’s going to mean turning off Facebook and email and Word with Friends and Twitter and even the television.
But, I’m a writer. I know that know. I think I’ve always known it.
Writing isn’t easy.
And I don’t think I’d like it if it was.
It’s inspiring to see someone else going for the dream. Writing is work. But it’s the most fun work there is.