You know, this is really the million-dollar question for me.
Do I love writing, or is it just that tapping on the keys that make me so happy?
What is it about typing on keys physically that give me such joy?
Is it the sounds? The comforting sound as the keys are tapped and words are brought to life?
Is it the act of watching words magically appear as they move from my brain to my hands to my fingertips, to be transmitted electronically to the screen?
Is it the fascination of my own narcissistic tendencies to watch my thoughts take shape? To hear them go out into the world?
I honestly don’t know anymore. I’m not sure whether I’m suffering from withdrawal or if it’s the cruel reality crashing in on me. That I was never that great a writer to begin with. That I don’t have the power nor the attention span this craft demands.
Have I romanticised the writing profession? Have I elevated the craft into something I can no longer reach? Did I do them, so that as a talentless hack I can say that it’s too difficult for me?
I honestly wonder now, how writers whom others consider mediocre, feel about their writing when they write. Do they write with the confidence that there’s always a small audience willing to read them? Do they write because they have that burning passion to? Are they able to release their characters and their stories into the wild, defenceless except for what they hold, and watch those same words be slaughtered beyond all recognition?
How do they find the courage to try again? How do they even get the courage to do it in the first place?
I miss writing. But I wonder, at times, if it misses me.
And that, is a question, that has sparked up another blog post to be posted later.