Writing

Around ten o’clock the other night, I began mentally gearing myself up for the challenge that lay ahead of me. I was stuck on this one essay, that was already late, and I had several other essays I needed to get cracking on, but I was just so tired and brain-fried from being sick that I quailed at the prospect of writing again that night. I almost despaired at the challenge of slogging it out with that paper again for even the thought of returning to my computer and once again to forcing my brain to form the knowledge and ideas in my head into correctly spelled words that would make up make complete sentences, coherent paragraphs, and a cohesive essay was exhausting. Then whilst thinking about what hard work writing could be and how difficult and perhaps even begrudging it can be even for one like myself who loves to write, indeed cannot keep from writing a thought struck me that allowed me to set to work undaunted.
I was suddenly reminded again of one of the weird qualities of my craft, one of the strange aspects of writing, one of the paradoxes of art itself: it may be easiest to write when I am inspired, the words well up inside me like the tide and come pouring out through my fingers with an unstoppable energy, and that may well be some of my best work ever, yet some of my best work on my stories has come during the times were I felt like I was getting nowhere, when I felt like slamming my head against the computer screen, when I had to fight for every word. There is a certain sense of awe and wonder and joy that comes when the words and ink fly but without a doubt that there is nothing quite like the pride that comes from having wrangled your brain eight ways from Sunday, having twisted and stretched and slammed your brain against the mat hour after hour until you have forged the words into something beautiful, just as there is nothing like the satisfaction that comes from standing bone-tired tired looking upon all you have accomplished in a day’s work.