Angst. Just your general angst.

I know writing is not supposed to be fun.

I know it is not necessarily supposed to be hard.

I know it can work well as you get into the “flow” and time and space disappear beneath the rapid-fire sequence of scenes forming in your brain and flying from your fingertips onto the keyboard that is clacking like a skeleton’s fingers on an unstringed piano.

That doesn’t make it any prettier.

Here is a perfect illustration of how a fiction writer thinks other people look at him: 

 

 

 

Yeah. That’s what it feels like too.

Here is what happens when you have a regular life: you don’t get enough fiction writing done, and your imagination decides to go into overdrive. This is also what happens if you have the luxury of writing fiction without much impediment, but take time off or can’t write for a few days.

Mind:

Stomach ache? Or a TAPEWORM?

Was that thunder? Or a NUCLEAR BOMB?

Joke email? Or DOES SOMEONE KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER?

Rash? Or FLESH-EATING VIRUS?

Headache? Or BRAIN ANEURYSM THAT IS ABOUT TO POP BIG TIME?

You get it. The only way to dampen down the flames of imagination is by writing. And the longer period of time you’ve written fiction, it just gets worse. Even if you publish little to nothing, your mind already has taken control. You will drain its overenergy, or it will plague you. Make a choice.

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About chuckmall

Fiction and food writer in Chicago. Author of "The Owl Motel: And Other Places Where You Are Not Welcome."
This entry was posted in Words, Writing Angst and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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