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I don’t want to write.
But yet I do.
God, I hate writing. I hate it.
But yet I love it. I want to do it forever.
Sometimes I spend three hours writing.
Sometimes I go three weeks without writing a word.
It tortures me–I get tired after only ten minutes of writing. My mind can’t take the power writing needs to make it good.
God, this sucks.
Wow, this line is amazing. Did I write it myself?
This is turning out so well!
This is awful, might as well throw it out and burn it to the ground.
How can I make money from this? Unless I’m J.K. Rowling, I might as well starve.
I could never ***** out my stories like that, though.
Having a major in creative writing is a joke.
Yet that’s all I want to do.
How could I base my entire life on something that tortures me so?
Is it Stockholm Syndrome? That’s silly. Words couldn’t hold me hostage.
I write for an hour to produce only a paragraph, then decide it doesn’t fit, then I delete it.
It’s a waste of time.
Why do I want to do it?
Why do I want to write?
Why do I continue to write?
Why do I torture myself?
The curse of a writer:
To love your craft even though it pulls and twists and fatigues your mind beyond repair, and still go back for more.