I am a workaholic. There I said it. Folks who are workaholics don't do it because they need money or because their professional lives are so much better then their personal lives. They do it because if they don't do it they feel like something is wrong with them. If they don't feel like something is wrong with them they know they are not in the right profession because that is what they were made to do, right?
I'm a writer. I write a lot. I don't know if I'm a good one even. I know I'm never happy with my work which begs the question: why they hell do you do it then?
Well, because the actual act if writer for me is better then sex, better then eating, better then a day at Disneyland, better then anything I can possibly imagine.
It is totally and completely for me and it's only after I write that I see that I failed at it. Sure, it maybe just a first draft but besides being a workaholic I also have a Obsessive Compulsive who thinks if it's not write the first time it can never be write and so I failed as an artist and as a human being.
Too hard on myself?
You bet your ass but that is all me. I take pills for it but they only lessen the pain, not completely take it away. So with that in mind there are days when I just can't take the pain anymore, when I tired of kicking myself in the nuts emotionally over petty bullshit like a comma missing or a plot that doesn't work the first time.
Yes, I love writing and I just hate myself for not being a God at it.
This has been going on for years, decades. I would would write every day over a thousand works of text and doing it has made me work happy then ever except when it doesn't. And there are going to to be people at their who say stop writing, do something else, be a different person.
It would be better if you told me to cut off an arm.
Putting words down is all I want and all I need and I can't stop, I won't stop. If a hero writer of mine told me to stop, if they said I had no talent, if they swore no one would ever read my work I still would not stop. I want this for me. The problem is I am me. It has nothing really do with writing.
If I was a born plumber and I kept on myself about how I didn't get the toilet fixed the first time out I'm sure I would feel just as miserable.
Which brings the point of the essay: breaks.
I hate them. I want to work. I need to work. In fact, I'm writing an essay write now about why I have to take a break from work but actually not taken a break.
So, it's that time again. Break time. And over break time I will probably think of nothing but writing. It's happened before and it will happen again. It sucks.
I won't be back for at least a week. I promised I would give you the two essays which I usually do at the end of the month but I can't. I am blocked and I need time off to do something else with my life even though writing is all I want to do.
Boy, does nature have a wicked sense of humor.
Again, I will take a break and for that...I am royally pissed.
Joseph Lewis Szabo III (pointman74250)