Life · Steps to Adulthood · Words

writing is hard

I cannot tell you how many times I have heard the phrase “You should write a book!”

I just…I can’t just…you don’t under…*sigh.*

People who don’t write just don’t seem to understand how freaking difficult writing can be sometimes. You know, as much as I enjoy it, writing is not that easy. If anyone ever tells you it is, they are lying. Yes, some days the words flow easier, the stories swirling in your brain are a bit clearer, but this is the exception, not the rule.

Even now, I am struggling to find the words to explain how difficult and frustrating writing can be. Sometimes the words you want to say just refuse to come, and when they finally do, they are often far inferior to the words you need to express how you truly feel.

Plus, I just suck at the whole creative writing thing. I tried that whole scene in college, and it was a disaster. Some people are blessed with the creativity and imagination to pull new worlds and characters out of thin air. I am not one of those people. So, I think I can pretty much nix the idea of writing a book.

Despite this, I really do love writing. It actually wasn’t until recently that I discovered just how much I love it. It’s not just a desire. It’s a need.

Sometimes I feel like I’m going to burst, my fingers tingling and itching to get out the words stuck in my head and my soul. Sometimes I don’t even have anything to say, or what I do have to say is just complete nonsense. In those moments, I just know I need to write. Which is actually kind of how I feel right now, writing this. I was just sitting at my desk, trying to get through the last few hours of the day, and suddenly I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to write. So, here I am.

That’s honestly one of the main reasons I decided to create this blog. I didn’t have any specific plans, I wasn’t hoping to make a career out of it, and I certainly didn’t think that the world was in desperate need of my small-town, naive, uncalled-for bouts of wisdom. I was just in desperate need of an outlet. I needed a reason to write. And someone to write for. I can’t write for myself. I can be very critical.

The more I think about this, the more I write, the more sure I am that this is what I want to be doing. What I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve never been sure about what I wanted to do when I “grew up.” I’ve so many ideas of what I could be, just an endless stream of desires coming and going. Growing up, I thought I might become an archaeologist or a police officer. Maybe a fashion designer or a baker. Now that I’m here, though, I think I can pretty confidently say that I want to spend my life working with words. It may not always be easy, it may end up being an incredibly frustrating and unfruitful path, but I think I would regret not going for it.

So, wish me good luck. Cause there’s like a 70% chance that it’s not going to work out.