I ask myself all the time why I write for a living, because my process goes something like this:
Me: Sweet, I've got the interview all lined up. It's going to be awesome talking to her, she's so smart and talented. Shit, wait, she's so smart and talented, and she's going to think I'm an idiot. My questions are stupid. She's heard these a million times before. Her utter disdain will come arcing across the phone lines, and I will be paralyzed and stuttering with fear. Dammit.
[Interview happens.]
Me: Oh, man, that was awesome. She was so smart and talented, and I'm totally in awe of what she's done and what she's doing. She's killing it.
Me, slightly later: She's killing it, and I am a total loser. I can't write this. I can't do her justice. I'm the worst writer ever to commit words to the page. I should go hide in a cave.
Me, even later: Why am I a writer? I am not a writer, I am a sad, sad example of a human being, just waiting to be exposed as the awful, sorry excuse for a writer that I am.
[Writes the article.]
Me: I think that works! I'm only 200 words long. I am a writer!
[Waits for editorial feedback]
Me: I suck. I will never work again.
[Editorial feedback does not include the words "suck" or "utter embarrassment."]
Me: Slid that one by them!
[Assignment comes in.]
Me: I'd love to write that! It sounds fascinating.
Me, later: Why did I do this again?
1 comment:
It sounds exhausting. Which makes me think you must be good at it and love it (or like it intensely) because you are much too smart to torture yourself by doing something which doesn’t satisfy you.
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