The struggle. It’s not much. It doesn’t feel like it’s much. The struggle seems petty and small, and never seems to amount to something worth while. Because the struggle attacks like a rabid wolf. A starving wolf.
I guess everything and everyone struggles. To some degree.
But, it makes no sense to me why I struggle with writing? I feel as if I’ve become proficient enough to understand the answer to that question. Either that, or I’m delusional.
I don’t know. I’m…unsatisfied by the things I write sometimes. Which is why I feel I struggle.
There’s an idea I have. It’s a book. It’s one I’ve been ‘thinking’ about for so very long. The fact I’ve never done anything with it–
Disappoints me. I have hopes for it. But, I’m also a realist. I don’t expect to be the next big thing. I don’t expect an immediate response or fix that will make the struggle go away. I don’t expect it to be perfect. Hell, I don’t even expect it to be great.
I’m just stubborn. I have hope. The baby idea came when I was seven years old. And I’ve continued to change, grow, redo, restart, delete, and burn through version after version in hopes I would spit out the perfect novel.
It’s the struggle. It’s part of being a writer.
One day, I keep telling myself.
Stay stubborn. Continue working on it. And maybe one day I’ll understand why I started it in the first place.