God I hate writing.

I hate destroying my words . . . having to expunge 90% of what I put down in the first place.  Because I wouldn’t have put it there if I didn’t need to say it.  It’s mind-garble, I know, but it’s my mind-garble, and so I feel sort of attached to it, even if it’s crap, from a writing perspective.  I hate having to trash it.  I really do.

Except I love trashing it, slicing and shifting and sculpting the word blob into some sort of comprehensible shape that hopefully communicates something others can receive, maybe even be affected by. I love that.

Also I hate not writing.  I hate not being able to pluck from my thought-jumbles (on any particular subject), the words that will get me out of the starting gate.  The proverbial writer’s block.  I hate that too.

And love it.  Because it sets up a tension I must resolve, a nagging discomfort, if not obsession, that creates an acute sense of purpose, which I love. It’s a kind of pleasure in pain.  And also because it feels so good when the dam breaks, tension evaporates, and I can get to it again.  Perverse pleasures, but pleasures just the same.

I also hate writing the middle part, the part after the first sentence.  Getting from point A to whatever the ending point is, makes me crazy sometimes.  In part, because I have no idea what the ending is so I don’t know how to forge a path to get somewhere I don’t know about.   Also I hate the middle part because I have this censor in my head who likes to come around periodically and lob obstacles that put a halt to the whole process, preventing me from even getting to a first draft. It’s infuriating.

“There are many reasons,” Mr. Censor-man says, “why you should not say that.”  He elaborates.  “It’s mundane – you’re readers aren’t interested.  It’s self-indulgent . . . no one cares that much about you, per se. It’s blunt . . . you might offend or embarrass that group/your family/your friends/yourself.  It’s risky . . . you might piss off your client/your boss.”  You get the idea.

Except I truly love extracting the middle part from my brain and spewing it onto the page.  At its best, when I’m really sticking it to the censor-man, it’s exhilarating, gushing out faster than I can type.  Love, love, love that.

I hate putting my writing out there.  It’s terrifying.  What if the censor-man was right?  Despite all my efforts to say something truthful and worthwhile, and say it well, what if I fail miserably at that, or expose myself in a way I hadn’t intended.  What if I bore or disappoint or hurt or offend?  What if I reveal just how ignorant I am about a subject?  What if . . . what if . . . what if . . . fear always seizes me the moment I send my little composition out into the readersphere . . . bare and open for anyone to read and judge.

Yet I love making it known.  It’s like sending out a little probe in hopes that its signal is picked up by someone (or by many someones), and has some effect, even if never made known to me. It’s a wish for connection and impact, and I love that, despite all of its risks.

Yes, I hate writing.

I think that’s why I love it so much.