Writing is a discipline. And a rather strange one. When you look at it objectively you have individuals who purposely exclude themselves from society to punch away at a keyboard creating people and conversations that exist purely within their own head. If you took away the computer there would be just cause to take these people to a mental health facility.

Of course, subjectively, it’s a discipline that expresses truth through imagination. At least this is what I tell myself. And my imaginary characters.

The frustrating part about the discipline is, regardless of the drive behind my writing, it doesn’t always come easily. Some days creativity pours from my fingertips. I sit as hours drop away, filling pages with perfect lines and creating apt analogies. Words gush from my head and I dance around trying to catch them all on paper. Figuratively speaking.

It’s on these days that I wonder why I don’t just do this all the time. Why aren’t I sitting and creating anthologies of novels to enjoy? It seems so reasonable.

Other days I stare at a screen and hate myself. I type the same three words, delete them, then try them again five minutes later. My brain becomes a wordless tundra. I dig at the cracked soil looking for inspiration and find only clichés and two-dimensional characters. On days such as this I wonder why I put myself through the torture. Why do I voluntarily spend my time writing?

It’s usually at this point that I retreat into a book, get absorbed into the pages, and come out inspired and ready to write. It’s a circle of life thing.

Writing, or any form of creativity, is a strange thing to put yourself through, but it’s because people trudge through the tundra and come out the other side that we get to enjoy the results. Whether it’s writing/television/movies/art/music, someone, somewhere, has sat and swore at a screen/page/script/canvas/instrument because the well has dried up. I just thank whatever god they sacrifice things to that they continued.

And it’s with that thought that I usually suck it up and write something, anything, to grease the wheel and get inspiration flowing again.

It’s a hard journey, but I hear there’s a good view at the end.

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