Writers are not allowed to complain about writing.
It’s like hearing a Major Leaguer complain about being a Major Leaguer, or a Senator complain about being a Senator. “Ohhhhh, poor baby, is your little brain OK, having to write all those words while you sit in a coffee shop? Will you be alright?”
Well, fuckity fuck fuck, here’s the truth: I’m NOT alright. I have a story due tomorrow, and right now it sucks. The words aren’t coming, my back hurts, I’m exhausted and I really have to poop, but the toilet in this Starbucks looks like an ashtray licked by a snail vomited upon by pizza-loving zombie dog. My wife and kids are swimming, and I’m here, struggling over every … single … word.
And this happens quite often. The line, “I hate writing, I love having written” is too perfect. I absolutely love having written. I also love reporting, digging, searching, uncovering. A great interview is like great sex; a finished product is like floating atop a cloud; a book deal is like a dog that speaks Spanish and brings you free home-cooked tacos. But writing—the literal act of placing word alongside word—is hard.
Really
Really
Really
Really
hard.
And the worst is when someone inevitably says, “You’ll get it done—don’t worry. You always do.” Yeah, that’s true. Until now. Because I plan on running across the way to the Subway and start making sandwiches, and forget all about this shit.
ARHGHRTEGHHGFFDF!
But I can’t complain, because I love writing!
Fuck.
