On Love

Writing is like falling in love. It’s a relationship with beautiful but tempestuous hips and butt and hands and voice. Always showing, never telling — good Writing. And it’s just the way you like it. And you can never get enough.

It’s there from the start, and you don’t see it until later. “You and writing…there’s this spark between the two of you,” your friends say. “I see the way you look at writing. You guys should just do it already.”

There’s an effortless joy and abandon that comes with the realization that you have been waiting years to be together, the both of you. Chocolate and flowers — Writing knows how cliche it all is. All Writing wants is to spend evenings in front of the computer together, wake up in the morning and have coffee with you.

For a while, it’s just poetry and short stories and maybe a tryst with Novel Writing. It’s good enough for you. Writing is happy, and it shows in everything you do together. It’s easy to just press the words to the paper, scratch ink into the pages, caress the keys. You carry a notebook in your back pocket, just for Writing. You show Writing — your lovely Writing — off to everyone.

Then, shit gets serious. You decide to get real with Writing, put more work into what you’ve got. And that’s impressing at first, but then…when you’re pushing so many hours a week, Writing starts…not being there. Missed calls, ideas forgotten. Writing shows up when you’re half-asleep or working on a countless query letter. Writing catches you with Business Writing, and you don’t talk for a month.

Writing is like falling out of love. It’s a falling apart with hands crossed over a chest and a scowl and too-tight muscles. Always showing, never telling — bad Writing. And it’s just the way that drives you mad. And you can never get enough.

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