This is what I told my writing coach today. I sat right down on her sofa and verbally unloaded all the latest information in my head about my life, about writing.
I told her, I am stuck, full-fledged writers block, and it is miserable. I try to write but can only get a few sentences down because I find myself so terribly boring. I don’t want to hear what’s going on in my head, I hear myself all the time and wish I could change the channel. I asked her, “Why would anyone want to be a writer. This must not be a choice, who would want to do this? Writing is torture.”
It made me realize that this desire to write that I’ve had as long as I can remember, since my fledgling work on Cheerios before I was 10, this is not a choice. This drive is built in, hardwired into my psyche. Because who would choose this?
My hope is that one day I can birth something interesting. That one day I’ll be able to get down on paper something that is befitting the decades of working and wishing. But I’m fairly certain that even if this happens I may still feel like a writer, shitty and hopeful at once.