laurengo.ca

Well, I’m supposed to be writing, I mean. I have no idea what you’re supposed to be doing. Hopefully something pleasant and good.

Tonight as I sat down to work on my novel I was swept with this tiredness. This week has been one social engagement after another, a tall order for an introvert. I think what finally broke me was making small talk with a cashier while we waited for their coworker to fetch something from the back. I’m not one of those anti small talk people. I know the important social function of small talk, it was just a bit much for me this week.

When you tell people you’re a writer you can see the interest leave their eyes. They’re not impressed, it’s more of a “that’s nice dear,” kind of interaction, like telling your mom about your rock collection when you were little. So when you try to explain to people that you’re struggling with writing, that’s a new level of disdain. Struggle with writing? How? Writing is like the second thing they teach you, right after reading and what shapes are called.

Sure, if I was writing a grocery list or instructions to feed the cat, I could do that quite well. Writing fiction is an entirely separate skill. Shovelling it under the heading of “writing” is something of a misnomer. Writing fiction is art and craft; it’s a balancing act of putting the elements of plot, character, theme into something compelling. Anybody can throw words at a screen, but it takes a writer to make them sing.

And yeah, it’s tiring. I took a detour and practiced drawing for the first time in months. I’m gonna grab a snack and then I’m going to try to write again. Until next time.