Yes, there is very bad news about writing. It’s that you have to do it.
If one is a writer, it is an inevitable fact of life that one must, occasionally at least, buckle down and plonk some words onto a page in such a way as to delight one’s readers. They expect it.
And not only they, but that whole cadre of individuals who comprise the publishing industry–they require it as well. The editors, publishers, agents and booksellers, I mean.
And there’s worse to come. If one has published a book which readers have liked, they may develop this craving, this desire, which will only be sated by another book by…you.
More work. More research. More cudgelling of the brains to amuse, delight and amaze with story, imagery, character, and literary brilliancy. More rewriting. Much much more of that. More than any sane person can imagine of that. And then some.
And those charming readers (whom I mostly love and adore) not content with wanting more, want it now. All of which is sounding a bit Oliver Twist to me at this moment, but without the ‘Please, sir’ element.
None of which goes very well with my ambition to be a slacker and an idler, a feckless wastrel and a crack rider.
However, that said…whinging aside…yes, am writing. And I even like some of it. So who knows, it may be even better than my usual weasel fur. Ha ha ha.