And like any toxic relationship, writing alternates between moments of orgasmic euphoria and long periods of emotional hangover.
Sometimes I wake up feeling that my manuscript is waiting for me in bed like a lover in a bad mood – cold, silent, inevitable. I sit across from it, pour myself some coffee, and begin the ritual: I give everything, and it gives nothing. Only blank pages and mirrors in which I see my own insecurity. I stare out the window, as if expecting a romantic to stand there with a bouquet of red roses. But there is no bouquet… and no words written on the page.
Being a writer is like going on dates with yourself – awkward, long, often disappointing. No one can save you from the silence. There is no guarantee that someday someone will publish, love, or even read you. Yet you keep going. Because the truth is simple: it is harder not to write than it is to write. And because you can’t sleep – like after a wild orgasm, when thoughts spin in your head that must be written down.
The world imagines writers as people of inspiration. The truth is, we are people of stubbornness. We endure rejections like bad relationships – smearing fondue over the bruises, lipstick on our lips, and we return again to the same lover: the text.
And the difficult path? It never ends. You just learn to walk it in high heels, with a stride as if you’re on a fashion runway.