I’ve always liked writing for school and college.
I like to manipulate words and sentences.
I like hunting down the ONE word
that will say exactly what I meant to say.
I even have a hard-copy thesaurus and you better don’t get me started researching something in it, because I might get drawn into it for hours, one idea leading to a choice of words, leading to the next idea, more words, something else, more words, etc.
In short, writing is enjoyable to me and I feel that it can be an artsy expression, even on my modest level.
… now that I’ve decided to actually sit down and write a book….
… writing has become work.
Yep, good old-fashioned work,
like in a job,
like something that can become tedious,
like something that one would love to avoid at times.
In fact, the way I look at it now, writing IS a job to me. Unfortunately, it is also a questionable job where any kind of remuneration is somewhere in the future, without clear substance, appearing at times impossible and at times a thing that I can only hope for without the slightest certainty.
Not an easy lifestyle!
Also, of course, writing is tedious. The words don’t flow easily at all times but I must bridge those gaps in order to continue my story to a point where “I know again what to write.”
Writing a novel is, indeed, “the works,” no less…
And now… I better get back to it.