Pretending to be a writer is possibly the most enjoyable pass-time anyone could possibly enjoy.
It involves a very fulfilled life, to say the least. You get up in the morning, and take a deep breath. “I’m going to do some work today,” you say to yourself, with a degree of self-importance. So you sit down at a desk, take out your laptop, and start your work. Facebook isn’t counted as work, unfortunately, so after two hours, you realise that, perhaps it’s time to really get down to work. But not before you check your emails! Something important could have happened since you were last online.
Finally, you’re looking at that blinking cursor on the blank screen, and you wonder, what should I write about? And you start, and you think to yourself “Wow, I’m good!” So you write rather an obscene amount, and with each word you feel more and more self-fulfilled. You feel like a real writer! This is what they do. They work just like this. Then you stop, and glare satisfied at the page full of writing. You begin to read over it.
And that’s when the disappointment sets in. You find one sentence which you feel was actually gripping – actually interesting. How could this be? You’re a writer now! You got up in the morning and wrote all of this… stuff! And what’s the result? Nearly two thousand words of absolute rubbish. You angrily erase the entire days work. Forget about the good sentence. It just wan’t up to scratch, was it?
And then that creeping feeling of inky regret seeps into your mind. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all? Maybe… Just maybe, you do have a talent, and maybe, that piece of writing you just erased was your life’s work. Perhaps you’re the next James Joyce – or maybe even Charles Dickens – J.K Rowling – Steven King! You swear to yourself at that moment, that tomorrow morning, you will start over. You will write from the heart this time. And as you doze off to sleep that night, you realise on some level that the exact same series of events will happen again tomorrow