dictionary.com (yes, I’m too lazy to open a real dictionary) defines work as “exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplish something; labor; toil.” That sounds about right. But just yesterday, my BF said, “All you do is work, work, work on the weekends.”
I was about to come back with a snarky retort, but took a pause instead. I’d just told him I’d finished a short story, a snippet of another, and sent off more query letters, and he was calling that work? The query letter part? Yes. Definitely. But the writing part?
That’s not work, at least to me. Sure, it’s hard. Sometimes you want all your characters to become zombies just so you can shoot them in the head because they’re not listening to you. Sometimes the plot makes absolutely no sense (chime in here, first draft TGW critters). Sometimes you wonder if you’re wasting your time, when you could be, oh, I don’t know, cleaning the pigsty you now live in.
Yep, it’s hard. And yep, you’re exerting yourself and you’re eventually going to accomplish that final draft. But, at least in my mind, work is something you have to do. Writing is something I want to do. It’s my escape. Writing has become such a huge part of my life, I honestly think I would completely lose it if I stopped. I get quite antsy if I haven’t written anything in a while. Antsy, as in grumpy, as in don’t come near me, BF. 😉
Did I explain all this to the BF? No. He wouldn’t understand. He’s not a writer. Instead, I distracted him with talk of BLT sandwiches. AND GUESS WHAT WE HAD FOR DINNER?!
So, what do you think? Is writing work? Please help me ponder this.
P.S. I went to the Lynyrd Skynyrd and ZZ Top concert this weekend. It was pretty cool. Foo Fighters epic, it was not. It was still a lot of fun.
P.P.S (or is it P.S.S.?) The picture has little to do with this post, but gosh it’s cute.