No, really; writing is hard.
Like, really hard.
Really, really hard.
Well, there are the days when the words just aren’t wording.
Then there are the days when the light bulbs just aren’t lighting.
Not to mention, there’s never enough time.
And let’s not forget the days when you’re just too t i r e d.
Some days, the voices are silent.
(It’s okay; they don’t talk to me, just each other)
Those are the loneliest days.
But the words are always there, even when they refuse to flow.
They pound through your veins, throbbing for release.
Your fingers skirt over the keyboard, tip-tapping frantically.
Words race across the screen, but the longer you type, the more acutely you realize there’s some kind of disconnect between your brain and your hands and the story– so vivid in your mind’s eye– is flat and lifeless on paper.
You don’t understand.
All you need do is weave those same words you’ve been using your entire life into the fabric of a story.
It should be simple.
But it’s not.
It never is.
Because some days the words just aren’t wording.
Other days the lights have all burnt out.
And there are never enough hours in the day.
Perhaps you’ll find the energy tomorrow.