Why it sucks to be a writer

I had a great chat with a few friends about what it’s like to be a writer. Writers and relationships. Writers and time. Writers and money. Writers and…their lonely pathetic little lives.

Here’s what I want to say. Writers deserve a medal. They let such a huge part of their lives go to write. They let a huge part of their lives go to not writing. It’s eternal procrastination. A writer is either procrastinating their writing or procrastinating their life to write.

I’m a writer. I am often writing. I am more often not writing. I am also sometimes “writing” but really spending time “not writing” as I try to write. Which means, we don’t enjoy our time. If we’re writing, we’re in agony. If we’re not writing, we feel guilt. Oh! It’s like shitting. You can spend your day eating and exercising and drinking water so you do poo. Sometimes you go straight to the toilet and plop there it is. Other times, you must work so hard, your doctor prescribes hydrocortisone. And you know what? That chain smoker with the venti starbucks latte is shitting like a leaf blower every morning like clockwork.

When I’m not writing, people ask me if I’m getting laid. That’s how much I glow. But if I get laid, then I’m likely not writing. So I’m getting laid, but cranky, mean, listless, distracted….not sleeping well….not eating right…YOu know??? When I’m getting action on a daily basis, then I’m seen as a frigid bitch!

All this to say, I’ve been terribly remiss in my writing.

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