Tuesday, June 9, 2009

In a Sea of Indifference

There are times when I have to wonder if it's all really worth it.  Writing is tough.  Many people seem to have this romantic view of a writer - sitting in a drafty attic, feverishly writing down the brilliance that flows into his brain.  I do not find it so.  I find it tricky.

It might be easier if I had grown up wanting to be a writer, but that simply isn't the case.  Writing seems to be something I always did but never paid much attention to.  I wrote all the plays that my class did in school.  I wrote short stories.  I wrote mystery scripts for various theatre companies.  But I always did it so that I could be IN the plays.  I find it amusing that the writing is now the way that I make my living.  Irony - not a fan?

It is a lonely life.  It would be nice to have others around so that I could bounce ideas off them - or simply to be able to hear another human voice during the day while my kids are at school.  It's a good thing, I suppose, that I have always been happy with my own company.

Enough of this whine of self-pity.  I'll get over it.  And I'll finish the mysteries that I've said I'll finish.


1 comment:

  1. Elspeth, these are the kinds of things I used to post about on my blog before the book took off. I really miss having these kinds of conversations. Thank you for starting them!

    I agree that sometimes it can be a lonely life, but other times I prefer it that way. More and more I find it to be the only thing I want to do, though, even though some days it is indeed a chore and downright frightening.


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