When I first started writing seriously, it was like the excitement of first love. I wanted to write all the time. I would writing in my head while watching TV, while hanging out with friends, while working, while driving. It was urgent. Necessary. I didn’t know shit about what I was doing, I had to get those words out.
Then writing and I started to get to know each other. I’d done a lot of the obvious plots. I’d figured out how commas and dialog tags worked and started paying attention to my grammar. Instead of being obsessed with the very idea of writing, I was starting to see my writing’s little irksome habits. The socks it left strewn around my living room. The way it preferred watching hockey over romantic comedies.
Then I started editing for other people, and it was like going out on double-dates. Usually, I’d come home to my words and love them all the more. But sometimes I’d see the flaws in others’ work and then look at my own and be searching for those same flaws.
Slowly, over time, I got comfortable. I started to realize my words were not the only words. That my words might suck.
That level of familiarity has come and gone over the past year, but in the last month or so, I’ve committed to being a SERIOUS WRITER. And it’s been sort of like getting engaged. I feel secure. But I also feel stuck. Bored. Wondering what else is out there. The words have come more slowly, and I second-guess every one.
Like any good relationship, I think my words and I will sort it out. But for right now, we’re each sitting in opposite corners of the room not-staring at each other.
And all I can do is hope and pray that it figures out what it should be apologizing for, and soon. Because I’m really, really, really looking forward to the make-up sex.