Writing is like being pregnant and giving birth.
Even male writers must understand this analogy. Once an idea is conceived within a fertile mind, it is gestated during a lengthy creative process. The culmination of said idea is the forceful pushing out (onto paper/screen) the last, pristine, complete miracle that is The Finished Project.
If writing is not for leisure but performed with a tangible end product as the final goal, the process is nothing less than excruciating, costly and time consuming. For me, personally, it becomes costly when I down no less than four twelve ounce bottles of Perrier per day just to get through three pages. If it’s so horrible then why in the hell do we still do it? Why do we sit here for hours on end, sometimes fidgeting, writhing in sheer agony as we type exactly 5 words per minute?
Because we’re addicted.
Writing is an addiction. Doing the deed, performing the act, is no less than excruciating. It is painful. We do this to ourselves, knowing full well how absolutely miserable we will be during the next few weeks or months.
We do it knowing that when we are finished, the high we get will be incomparable.
Print out a completed project wrought by your own hands and hold it for a moment. Feel the heft of the pages. Smell the warm paper. Now look at the precisely splattered blobs of black ink that are the words upon the page’s surface. This stack of paper, with its ink blobs, is a piece of you.
Did you write something horrific? Poetic? Fluffy? Comedic? It doesn’t matter. Every word on those pages is a tiny piece of you. And you will send it out into the world in the hopes that it will make it, be loved by someone else and come into its own.
Eventually, we authors come down from this incredible high. We mope around for a week, trying to think of what we should write about next. Then, the compulsion hits us. Word must come out!
And the cycle begins again.