Writing is HARD work!

How many times have I heard people say that? How many times have I said that myself? And each time I’ve heard that writing is hard, I watched people smile. And each time I’ve said those same words, I've felt my own smile stretch into my cheeks. Then my mind goes to the pleasure of the work, the wondrous surprise of what I’ve written.

You bet writing is hard. It’s the best hard work there is. To write is to empty one’s self of ideas, words, rhythms and inspiration onto a page. Then we read what we've written. Yes, the first drafts have more problems than glitter. But within the unwelcome is the miracle of a character, the twist of conflict or tension, the wording that brings forth a world of feeling, texture, color, sound and sometimes aroma. Something of the promise of talent, some unspecified and as yet to be known inkling of what flows through us to the page.

I remember the first phrase of mine that caught me eye: "The unfamiliarity of wearing high heels made the depth of the reception area’s carpet a challenge to maintaining her dignity.” Not a great piece of writing by any standard, but the first time I felt the satisfaction of capturing my character’s predicament. Wow, I liked it. And then the workshop to which I submitted the piece all agreed that line showed a bit more talent and voice than I’d shown previously.

I also remember a writing teacher—my hero—say to me that we—WE—would work through my habit of beginning sentences with these long dependent clauses, a carryover from my years of academic essay writing. He showed me that transitions weren’t meant to keep the reader thinking, but allow for movement from one story element to another. And there I was, writing sentences that carried a reader deeper into the story. Wow, another breakthrough as I committed more to my writing abilities and craft.

Recently I wrote: "Now the nights too brought her to the foamy edge of salt water tagging her toes and the sucking of sand at her heels.” It’s only one line of a story, but I love it. I’m so glad I’ve stuck with my writing. Even in the face of others who might pick at a line, reject the work as a whole, or even wonder why I even attempted such a project. The efforts I need to make to accomplish my work, the translation of the story in my head to words on the page, the very breathlessness of making a paragraph work satisfies me like little else. I feel like the musicians I always admire who bring me melodies on which I can drift into places I’ve never been before. Now I know I can go places with my own inspiration, craft, and talent by writing.