One of the Hardest Things About Being a Writer

One of the hardest things about being a writer is that you’re not a painter.

There are frustrations in using words to paint your vision. It’s like trying to describe the taste of chocolate to someone who’s never tasted sweets and has no understanding of that delicious rush on the tongue (or maybe that’s just me).

It’s so much easier to just hand someone a Milky Way and say “eat this. And then you tell me how to describe it.”

The hardest thing about being a writer is that you’re not in the NFL

Sure, if you put your work out there you’re going to get all sorts of bumps and bruises, the injuries so vast you may not get out of bed for a few days or you might give up your craft altogether. But while you’re in bed, you won’t have millions in salary and endorsements flowing into your bank account.

The hardest thing about being a writer is that you’re not a circus monkey and you can’t be the crowd’s favorite all the time

In fact, some people, when they learn you’re a writer, will tell you they haven’t read a book since the sixth grade. I would never tell a circus monkey that I’ve never been to the circus. If I did, he would probably hurl dodo at my head.

And perhaps that is an appropriate response for writers who hear the same.

The hardest thing about being a writer is that we are not the IRS.

We cannot order people to send us money or risk jail time

The hardest thing about being a writer is that we are not Playboy pinups getting paid for removing our clothes and standing naked while others look upon us admiringly (or critically as the case may be).

While we are naked all the time inviting others to comment on our flaws and failings, there is no Hemingway mansion where we’re lolling around scantilly clad and effortlessly gorgeous. 

The hardest thing about being a writer is that we’re not AI.

It takes us weeks, years, or decades to perfect our craft and only one bonehead to tell us they don’t read, or one one-star review to make us think ditch digging before heavy equipment was invented is our only worthwhile career option at this point.

Many of us are flowers who grew under the absent care of a would-be gardener who loves Netflix a little too much. We’ve grown spindly and crooked as we reach for the sun, figuring out our own way, no stakes to aid us or trellis to guide.

Most of us love to read, but in doing so we discover the talent of another that makes us again think longly of those ditches. We feel like hacks. And think we’ll never be as good as that writer. Our “that” means anyone good, anyone worthy of reading, anyone competent.

But…

We keep trudging and plodding…err, plotting.

Because as writers, we are explorers and builders of empires and lands. We can erect sparkling cathedrals in a day and kill off scads of people, much to our audience’s dismay.

As writers, we are the voice box behind Hollywood’s greats. We made you fall in love with Mr. Darcy.

It was us, not Colin Firth. (Sorry, Colin. You’re cute and all.)

And when you cheer because Dirty Harry is inviting someone to make his day, or the Terminator is reminding you he will be back, it is the writer, the lonely, anxiety-ridden, introvert writer who you pay homage to as everyone you know rolls their eyes as you recite your favorite lines ad nauseam.

This article originally appeared on Medium. Follow me there.