"I choose to write."
What the hell? What the fuck? What the cheese?
How can someone choose to write? I mean really, why would anyone willingly put themselves through that? I hate writing. I abhore writing. It's not something I choose, I bloody well just do it.
Oh, I know what everyone's thinking. You're thinking, "Well, if she hates it so much, why doesn't she just stop? Like, duh."
Tch-yeah, right. Stop breathing too, right? There's a thought.
Listen, sunshine, you may think you know what you're on about here, but you're not. Oh, it's all good and great when you start out, and the story's all like, "Oh, yeah, c'mon baby, write me," and you're caught in a sort of latent orgasm, but you know what?
Then the honeymoon ends.
And suddenly it's not long sessions in front of the monitor or languishing in bed with a notepad; suddenly it's, "Get over here, you lazy slob, and write! Because I won't let you sleep till you do, I won't let you eat till you do, and - so help me all the gods of literacy - I won't let you drink till you do!"
"I heard that!"
Just stop writing, I'm sure... And then there's if you're writing fiction. Because if you write fiction, all those stupid little kids you bred with the story are running around and getting in the way. You know; characters.
And Thoth aid me, but you love those characters. You love them to death, and very often that's literal, because you're going to hurt them and estrange them and kill them, and you'll be crying your heart out the entire time. So you'll hate yourself for it, and you'll hate them for doing that to you, and the story...
You know what the story's doing? Watching and laughing. Cackling in manical glee at your pain.
And then there's writer's block! The impotence strikes! And you see the story, just sitting there in its frilly nightgown, going, "Oh, still can't, huh? Really, it's too bad, but I suppose it happens to all authors every now and then." And it just has this tone saying, "No, really, I'm sure it's just you that's inadequate."
And then a few days later, as you're near tears, when even scented candles and wine didn't get that pen held high, and the story sort of pats you on the head and suggests that maybe you should try some of those aids that are so in. "I hear there are pills for it."
Drugs, too. Absinthe, pot, cocaine, you name it, but the hell if I won't battle my lax mind with my own will.
It's just so damn hard with the story giggling behind my back.
But then! One day, it's over and all's well. Once again there are those long, long nights together, where you type out thousands of words with the ease of a trashy Mary Sue author. Then the story drops the bombshell.
"I want a divorce. And I'm bringing the characters."
So all you can do then is sort of cry, while hoping that they'll all do all right out in the wide world, and before you know it, some hot new story presents itself and is batting its metaphorical eyelashes at you.
The whole damn thing starts right over.
I fucking hate writing. But if I'll stop? Not yet; there's a really cute fantasy story waltzing around on my notepad right now...
But after that, I swear I'll never write again. Well - except maybe for that science fiction idea I had, and the other fantasy one. But after that, never again!