…If I hadn’t, in elegant diction,
Indulged in an innocent fiction;
Which is not in the same category
As telling a regular terrible story.
-Gilbert and Sullivan, ‘The Pirates of Penzance’
Writing is hard.
Well, not as hard as trying to deadlift 450lbs. Or fixing a car. It has its own brand of difficulty. You look at the paper, and instead of taking the pencil and sketching (which is hard indeed), you try to get your fingers on the idea that is turning over in your head and putting it in your words.
The ever-present idea of a thousand monkeys on the typewriters comes to mind more often than not. I am aware of my limitations with writing and most of the stuff I write is drivel. Notes about the Bulls and the assorted mythologies about them. Ideas about abandoned Nanowrimo attempts. Random other stuff.
I am also a massive procrastinator. I rather goof off and tend to other things than write. Heck, sit in front of a computer all day and write/goof off. Even if I got paid for it, I would like to take frequent breaks from writing. Which then leads me to getting distracted from writing and having me rush at the last minute scampering at things.
Also is the fact that I am not a good writer of non-fiction, sort of speaking. Reports and essays have been known to be dry things with little meat to chew. I failed countless Composition 1 classes to learn this, and one of the major depressing reasons why I kept on drifting in and out of college.
Fiction, on the other hand, comes easy for me as breathing. I was blessed with a colorful imagination, and I spend time gathering fluffs of dreams and spinning them into yarns for me to knit. Not to say that I have a gift for it: I have problems making three-dimensional characters and describing surroundings. Problems that I hoped I would try to remedy when I made that rash promise of me writing a day at the beginning of the year.
Still, the year is young, and I can try to get back into that promise.