The writing life is a merciless one. It demands that you step outside the system and operate according to rules that don’t work in the real world. It denies you the freedom to settle for less and choose a life more ordinary. It wants the best of you and knows when you’ve sold yourself short.
It grips you with conviction and won’t let you play to the gallery, until you’ve told the truth in all its dirty bitterness. But it won’t take responsibility for the words that it gives you and won’t apologize when it’s left you all alone to bear the brunt of the consequences.
It will give you minutes of joy for hours of despairing and still convinces you that it’s a fair trade. It will make you distance yourself from the fruit of your labor and delights itself in your second guessing. It will make you fall in love with it, but won’t return your affection. It will tease and taunt you until you keep pining for more of it. The writing life is addictive and vindictive, crippling and liberating. It will take you in with promise, but it will never let you leave.
Image Credit: Sarah Reid