Write, they say. Write a story, a short story, a scene of a story, anything, as if writing is the easiest thing to do. I can tell you a few things about writing, but it being easy is not one of them. It’s hard to write. On the other hand, anything of essence is hard and it should be, otherwise there wouldn’t be any value to it, it would be cheap, unimportant, trivial. Some of you might argue that writing can also be all these things, that everything is in the context. You are right of course, it is. But that is exactly my point, writing something of value, something that someone somewhere might actually enjoy reading is a hard thing to do.
Writing is a process, it’s a mental exercise, it requires focus and skill and I am stuck with just wishful thinking. I have no talent as a writer, I have never been talented in anything really, as a kid I was always the second best in almost everything, or usually worse, but never the measure of excellence, never no.1, the guy that everyone congratulates in the end for being who they are, the guy who gets a pat on the back and a smile of acknowledgment and admiration. Writing is no different. I am not saying that I should be talented in order to write, but hell, it would sure make things a damn lot easier. See, we’re back where we started. Writing is hard. Somehow I just can’t help but wanting to do it. It’s a dialogue with one’s self, it’s a form of visualizing your thoughts, structuring them and correcting them, with punctuation. A way of letting your imagination roam, free to create beings, environments, whole worlds and universes, to go back in time or forward into the future, of criticizing, of reliving moments in time, a way of understanding and sharing. But you have to write damn it, otherwise everything just stays in your head, one on top of the other, creating a pile of thoughts and experience and imagination, messy, dark and overcrowded. You have to release the pressure. Think of writing as creative trepanning.
Oh, how I wish I could fill these pages with characters and plot, let my imagination run amok and just explode in a literary orgy, my fingers on fire over the keyboard, each stroke rubbing off the letters on the keys, each sentence straining the machine to follow the flow of words and meaning. Yet, all I can do is write about how I can’t write. Weird, huh? Welcome to my world. Now back to accounting, there’s a good chap!