People who write are part of a creative community. There is no doubt, if we didn’t enjoy what we do, why would we be spending hours in front of our computers or bent over a notepad to pull a flow of words from seemingly nowhere? Not only that, turn those words into stories to make them into fiction or non-fiction. We nurture those sentences into shapes and colours of life. We inject ourselves or other people in there, and place them into events, situations, conflict, resolves, romance, murder, journeys, and memories.
After that, begins the real suffering, or as I call it the pain and pleasure, of editing. Going over and over and over, again and again and again, over what started as a gorgeous love affair between you and your words into a marriage full of conflict, passion, wayward feelings, taking you through sentences, words, commas, full stops, and other bits of shapes jumping uneasily inside paragraphs. You suffer, you bleed, you’ve had enough, a light shines brightly on a beautiful line that you fall in love with, and then continue into the dark world of doubt.
When you sat down in the first place, you were full of expectations, desire, hope, an idea scratched inside of you that you had to give birth to. The first words were the new baby, a life, just starting. You looked at it with love-filled eyes, fed it the best morsels of your creativity, wiped its doodoos with your endless edits and when it wasn’t even old enough, you started to consider how you would introduce this new child into a harsh world.
Here we are, all of us, playing with words, escaping into ideas, and willing others to love our love-child. No matter what, we have to go on. The compulsion to keep writing might have holidays but, sooner or later, it reclaims us, and we chase those words into a new horizon of story.