Writing is not for the faint of heart. Sure, you can keep a diary and spill your guts to yourself every day, and hope that no one ever reads it and discovers that you spent a lot of time talking about sex and even giving your genitals a name. This happened in one of the most famous diaries to be published, although in the original version all that stuff was cut out–about thirty percent in total.
It’s a long. torturous journey that doesn’t always end well. It’s entirely possible that you’ll spend months, maybe years, working on a story that you need to tell, only to see it rejected by publisher after publisher. It’s enough to drive you mad, and there have been instances where people have simply given up for a while, or for good, or, in the case of the guy who wrote A Confederacy of Dunces, he killed himself, and it took his mother another eight years to see the book published.
One can find a lot of pain in writing. It pulls at you, it frustrates you, it takes so much of your time. It’s exhausting, because most writers are working a regular job, and a lot of times when you have your work in progress before you, it’s about nine o’clock at night, and you’ve been up since four AM, and you only have about ninety minutes to get said what you want to say. It’s sometimes more of a job than it seems, because maybe times you don’t want to write; you want to call it a night and play games all night, and let your brain become mulch for the vegetables.
Then again, when you reach the end of your story, one that you’ve worked on for weeks or months–or even years–you feel such satisfaction. You’ve finished a task and you realize what you’ve created, and it’s suddenly like all the emotions you’ve poured onto each page comes back and hugs you hard . . . and you know you’ve done something good.
Yesterday I finished Suggestive Amusements. Last chapter, a few thousand words to write, I wrote during the afternoon and into the evening, and somewhere past nine PM I wrote “The End”, and it was all good. As I neared the end, the emotions began manifesting as something real, and I was both sad and ecstatic. The ending, particularly the last few hundred words, brought forth the tears, but at the same time I was happy the story was finished.
The novel was a chore at time. It was a tremendous undertaking. It caused a bit of soul searching, and even came close to beating me about enough that I needed to step away a few nights and just enjoy life. There were moments when I wondered if I would ever finish the story–or is what I was writing was worth finishing.
Now is the time to publish. Now’s the time to get one of my novels formatted for Smashwords and Amazon, and get a good cover made. Then edit another story, and get it published. Then . . .
Write the next tale.
It’s what I do.