Bookmark #903

The sun blares through the kitchen window, warm, almost burning, and in the soft comfort of having woken up just five minutes ago and being kissed by the sun, I make my coffee. I plunge the French press filter and pour the coffee into a cup. Then, out of nowhere, like a bird with no place to sit on this tiny balcony, a thought arose, and since I only think about nine or ten things in total, this one was about the usually beaten horse: writing. Specifically, it was about how, compared to the other forms of art, writers do not do much.

What do writers do? They just stare at a page. But that something requires no effort to get into has no bearing on the effort it requires to stay in it.

What do writers do? I wager they keep writing. That is all they do. But it is far more difficult and irritating than one could imagine. Many can write—this is true now more than ever—but to do it for more than a couple of days is crucial. It is different for writers. Many write their lives away and never get a word read. Many write a few poems, and people go gaga over them. Music works differently—do not get me wrong, I do not mean it works easily—where a person can do ten songs and not make any for a decade. Even if they do this, they will be called a musician. Their vocation is in their ability to play an instrument or sing or perform. But a writer is only a writer till they are writing. If I were to stop what I do tomorrow, if I stopped writing altogether, even for a week, they would say: he does not write now; he was a writer. It is different; we must stay submerged, torn, always living, always watching, always sitting to write. It is not always easy, not when your soul rebels like a disgruntled worker, not when your heart beats out of step, not when your mind and body bicker like siblings of about the same age, one or two years removed. It is hard on most days, and on some, it is harder.

That something requires no effort to get into has no bearing on what it takes to stick to it. This is true for love, and this is true for writing. Perhaps that is why they claim writers make for excellent lovers. But what would I know about love? I only know to sit and wait.

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