While you get familiar with my website, here’s a quick rant from one of my guest bloggers. . . .
by Camille Benson
(written with both paws)
Passion makes me a writer. The passion of hatred!
I hate writing. It challenges me. Writing means I have to live up to my own expectations, which is not the way to live a contented life.
Writing means I have to be creative when I’d rather be lazy. Writing means I have something nagging at me after a long week at work—especially when I’d rather just have a normal weekend (like people who don’t write).
The passion of hatred turns to love and excitement once I get going with a story, or even a complaint in my journal. Then I always think,
“What took me so long? Why didn’t I just bite the bullet and get writing sooner?”
It’s something like that phenomenon new mothers report about their labor pains: When you’re in the delivery room you swear you’re NEVER gonna have sex again in your entire LIFE because of the pain you’re going through right that minute. But a few days after the birth you go into amnesia. You go home and do it all over again and you get yourself pregnant and you wind up in that delivery room screaming, “Never again!”
Except with writing it’s the other way around. I get amnesia about how much I enjoyed it the last time. All I know is what a chore it looms up as when I’m contemplating doing it. A weariness comes over me and I feel convinced I have nothing to say.
I’m a writer because I complain about writing.
I’m a writer because somebody gave me an assignment to write 5 sentences about what makes me a writer—and, like a hairball, I coughed up 22 instead.
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