“What do you love about writing?” This month’s writing prompt.
I had to think about this, and then think about it again, then think about it some more. But every time I tried to think about my ‘love’ for writing all that came up was how writing was/is work. Work that beckons me to participate most days. Work that I couldn’t live without, but work that requires constant struggle through resistance to complete.
I don't always like my work.
Not only is writing work, but it’s also a part of me. I can't get away. It’s how I get my ideas out, and I don’t really have a choice in the matter. I either write something or become a discombobulated mess as ideas amass themselves in the limited space between my ears.
Ah, the 'joys' of writing….
But then it dawns on me. If writing was an instant success where every word came naturally and perfectly, what would the point be? What kind of love measures itself on whimsy and ease? A love that’s fleeting, that’s what.
Most of us would know that the quality of love is rooted in its substantive essence. The choosing you have to do day, by day, by day, to love. This is why even on those days you don’t like to write, you still love writing. Then one day, sometimes by chance or miracle, the love offering of words produces the reward—the book, the perfect sonnet, beautiful paragraphs….
It's why we keep returning, we choose to love writing. An odd kind of love, no doubt, since I may need writing, but writing doesn’t need me.