A friend was complaining about struggling with writing a section of work. I upchucked my maudlin all over their social media and now feel shame, so instead I’m relocating it to my own space for self-indulgence. You’re welcome.
Writing is truly Sysiphean. You spend literal aeons of your life doing it, and when it’s done all you can see are the errors, lit up like neon.
There’s always something. It doesn’t flow. You missed part of the argument. You didn’t know about that one guy who wrote the thing. There’s always something for Reviewer Number Two (accursed be thy name) to crank on about.
Right now, I’m two weeks late with a draft that is already 3,000 words over, and still half a chapter to go. I’m writing at lightspeed and it still feels like swimming through treacle with all limbs bound.
And when it IS done, I will hate it with the passion of a thousand burning suns, because of the pain of writing it, and the acute awareness of its flaws. But yet I’ll still be upset when Reviewer Number Two gets going.
And I’ll still want people to read it, though I’ll never want to see it ever again (yet will be destined to, repeatedly, when the rounds of editing commence.)
Sometimes I think I should take up something easier on the soul.