j_Freebase
Virgin
- Joined
- Jan 1, 1970
- Posts
- 9
To write well, to write effectively, to write something worth reading, you have to be passionate. Not just about the topic at hand, but about the writing process in general. You have to be utterly passionate about writing.
It has to torment you. You have to feel icy desperation when you're not hitting that sweet spot. It's a bit like love. It is Love, in its sickest, most codependent form.
You KNOW when something's wrong, and if you can't name it, it causes this nameless panic to rise up from your gut, clawing it's way up your ribcage, to be released in a scream of frustration.
And Writing is a harsh, uncommunicative, and abusive bitch-goddess. And you love her. Simply, helplessly, even though you know she could care less about you. You see her out and about with her current favorites, other authors, and you fucking hate them. No peaceful polyamory this. You have them for your beloved's favor, hating that the words seem to flow so seamlessly from them.
Sometimes she's with you and the words drip from your pen or onto the keyboard so easily, and everything clicks, and you're golden, and you think to yourself, "This is love". Then she leaves you, spent and wretched, in a cooling pool of your own verbosity. Used up while she goes to gallivant about with her Others.
And you wait for her return. She treats you like dirt, like a toy, like a plaything, and you love it just so damn much.
This isn't the power from submission that a submissive gets. No. You tell yourself that writing only hits you because she loves you.
You sit, and you wait, and you anguish, in front of a blank screen or an empty page, nursing your bruised ego, while Writing is out and about with other authors, her shrill ecstatic laughter sounding in the tap tap tapping of other author's keywords as the words... the words that were YOURS not so long ago... come to them so easily. You wait, wishing, yearning for her return, like a good little whore.
It has to torment you. You have to feel icy desperation when you're not hitting that sweet spot. It's a bit like love. It is Love, in its sickest, most codependent form.
You KNOW when something's wrong, and if you can't name it, it causes this nameless panic to rise up from your gut, clawing it's way up your ribcage, to be released in a scream of frustration.
And Writing is a harsh, uncommunicative, and abusive bitch-goddess. And you love her. Simply, helplessly, even though you know she could care less about you. You see her out and about with her current favorites, other authors, and you fucking hate them. No peaceful polyamory this. You have them for your beloved's favor, hating that the words seem to flow so seamlessly from them.
Sometimes she's with you and the words drip from your pen or onto the keyboard so easily, and everything clicks, and you're golden, and you think to yourself, "This is love". Then she leaves you, spent and wretched, in a cooling pool of your own verbosity. Used up while she goes to gallivant about with her Others.
And you wait for her return. She treats you like dirt, like a toy, like a plaything, and you love it just so damn much.
This isn't the power from submission that a submissive gets. No. You tell yourself that writing only hits you because she loves you.
You sit, and you wait, and you anguish, in front of a blank screen or an empty page, nursing your bruised ego, while Writing is out and about with other authors, her shrill ecstatic laughter sounding in the tap tap tapping of other author's keywords as the words... the words that were YOURS not so long ago... come to them so easily. You wait, wishing, yearning for her return, like a good little whore.
