Being a writer

  The point of being a writer is hating to write. It’s the feeling of wanting to have something to write about so badly that you just avoid it all together. You are unnoticed until you become noteworthy. Before then, you’re just a nobody typing away at a computer in a coffee shop. You wake up early with a concept for the best novel ever, but you can’t even get a sentence on the page. Letters fly from your fingers slower than the rate of the return button. 

A racing mind is an idle body. Closed eyes are not just sleep; they are moments when the consciousness wanders to other worlds. Early morning and late nights are interrupted; “Did you take the trash out?” she calls. “I’ll get it in a minute, I’m writing” you respond. The trash never gets taken out, so she resents you for the rest of the day. You close the computer and have to get real work done at the place that pays your bills. Weeks go by then months, and the unfinished manuscript remains just that. 

You open google, “How do you write good poetry?” Write as much as you can, it responds. That doesn’t seem to be working. “What are the chances of getting published by the Big 5?” 1%. Even if you try to convince yourself, you are most likely a part of the 99%. You try a smaller scale. School magazine. Rejected. Community poetry contest. Rejected. Scholarships for writers. Didn’t pass the first round. You try a broader search. Too young. Rejected. Too old. Rejected. Past publications? No? Rejected. You silence your email notifications to avoid the disappointment. 

You find yourself there again. Laptop on your desk. Fingers poised on the keys. For someone who hates writing, you find yourself there a lot. In silence, the words flow like rivers splitting into ten different streams. Until your hands ache, you turn thoughts into words. With surprise, you realize that you don’t care if anyone will ever read it. You would sacrifice the eyes of a million people hounding your work in favor of those hours when silence and stories become your only moments of peace.