Don’t Be Fooled: Writing is Not Romantic

Writing is not romantic.

Growing up, I thought writers lived this wonderful life. They travelled often, wandering down cobblestone streets, notebook in hand, jotting down observations and thoughts. When it came time to write, words just flowed out of them.

They would sit at a desk or a table in a little cabin tucked away in the woods, coffee nearby. (Naturally, the table or desk would be wooden and worn, having seen a few things itself). Or perhaps they write in a coffee shop, sitting at a table alone for hours.

If you’re meant to be a writer, surely the words come easily, flowing from your brain to your hand and on to the page.

Writing is not Romantic, but at Least I’m Comfortable

But writing is not romantic at all. It’s ok – the lack of romanticism is (mostly) made up for in comfort. At least these days, I have a comfortable spot to sit.

Almost every day, I write from a cross-legged position on a brown tweed couch I’ve had for nearly 15 years. The seats are lovely and deep. I prefer to lean my back against the armrest, facing my body along the length of the couch. That way, if my legs go to sleep, I just stretch them out.

The back pillows are unattached, giving me the freedom to move them around as I please. On the arm opposite me is the beginning of a hole, the fabric lovingly and mostly unintentionally scratched away by our dog, Fred.

The couch is in front of a large window in our living room. Looking out the window, there isn’t much of a view – a few trees and houses, cars parked in neighbors’ driveways that never seem to come or go, the plastic playhouse my son got for free when we first moved here.

At least I’m comfortable when I wrestle the words out of me.

The Reality of Writing

I never really considered myself a writer. And I’m not sure I’ve ever actually called myself that. When someone asks what I do, I generally gesture to my kids. Self-explanatory.

I don’t see myself as a “writer” so much as someone who practices writing. Someone who works to take the time to notice things in the world, then works harder to put what I’ve noticed into words for someone else to read. I’m not very good at it, but I keep trying.

I’m sure there’s an English teacher internally screaming at some of the sentences I’ve put out in the world.

But maybe somewhere in those sentences, there will be a little nugget of wisdom that someone can use. Mostly, I think it’s just me rambling. An inner thought life made public.

Writing is hard. I have more half-finished thoughts than I know what to do with. More notes on my phone and my computer than I’ll probably ever get to. I drag a 20-pound box of journals from country to country because maybe, somewhere in there, is something that someone needs to hear.

Writing is hard. More often than not, I wrestle the words out. I sit and stare at a blank page, the blinking cursor taunting me. My pen refuses to move, no matter how much I will the words to come and make themselves known. Instead, they stay hidden, and I sigh and pace.

Sometimes I abandon the attempt altogether and instead look up how much protein I should be eating each day, or the best organizational system for my clothing. I Google, “why is writing so hard,” or do the dishes, watch TV, or finally sort through some things in the garage. I pick crumbs from my children’s granola bar off the couch or out of the carpet as I sit, thinking about nothing in particular—anything to keep from trying to write.

Writing is Not Romantic, but it is Necessary

Once in a while, the words come. Once in a while, my inner thoughts and my hands work together, typing out what’s on my mind in a way that mostly makes sense from the beginning.

Mostly, I make more notes that I will likely never return to (but sometimes I surprise myself).

Writing is not romantic. It forces me to confront myself, my own thoughts and habits, in a way that isn’t always comfortable. I become more keenly aware of my failings, biases, and limited understanding.

For me, at least, it’s doubting almost every word on the page. It’s wondering if your writing will be misinterpreted, or change how people in your real life perceive you, or how they interact with you.

It’s typing a bunch of words into a Word document, knowing more than half will probably be deleted. (Or, if you’re like me, cut and pasted way at the bottom, just in case you need them later).

Writing means trying to mean what you say, but then once you’ve written it, wondering if you do, in fact, really mean it.

When Inspiration Comes

Writing means inspiration comes when you’re in the shower, driving down the road, or making yourself a cup of coffee. Just minding your own business. Inspiration comes when you least expect it, leaving you scrambling for something to write with (and on).

Or worst yet, attempting to repeat the sentence or idea over and over until you can write it down. Naturally, it either disappears or morphs into something altogether different. Sometimes that’s better. Usually not.

Writing is not romantic. But it’s a part of me—a thing I must do, like breathing air or drinking water. Something about the act of putting words to paper, whether or not those words are ever read, keeps me awake to my life.

I may not be any “good” at it, and it might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done (and choose to keep doing day after day, over and over). But at least I’m comfortable doing it.