Writing is always such a tricky thing to do. The minute you decide you want to write “about” something, in a “particular way”, you feel strained. I have often found that it is easier to permit myself to write rubbish, to accept that one cannot produce works of true genius all the time, and in the cases of some writers, maybe never at all.
It is the same with all art I suppose. You are trying so hard to create a masterpiece that you forget to relax and let things come to you. At the end of the day, it is important that you listen to what comes to you and take it down, instead of trying to “make” something.
I wish I could treat writing like I treat my reading. I read, and read too much for my own good, but not so I can sit for an exam, or gain something material. I do not have to be good at reading, and I can read anything, from manuals to menus, completely uncaring of what “quality” I read. I have read Harlequin romances and Goethe on the same day and enjoyed both. They were both worth my time, and I am not ashamed to say it.
Maybe I am not destined to become a great writer, I just don’t have it in me. But that’s alright. As long as I am enjoying what I am doing, or following a compelling need within, I should not complain.
Here is hoping that I get the “I” out of my system in this and my other blogs, and when I write otherwise, am able to forget that an “I” exists. A giant pen with ears— that is who I am, simply taking dictation from somewhere up above, or deep within.
I am not a writer, but a secretary to Someone Who Knows, taking dictation.
Now I have to make sure I write that down on my writing-desk!