It's the worst.

Do you like writing?

Isn’t it something you want to do more of? You’ve thought about it, haven’t you?

Like you had a little tiny thought, like hey, I could write more. It would be nice if I wrote more stuff. That would be a good thing for me to do regularly.

But of course you don’t do it.

Because you also hate writing.

I understand you. I’m not judging you because I also hate writing.

Like I am super surprised when I talk to some people and they get the impression that I actually enjoy writing.

That’s ridiculous!!!

My mom will make snide comments sometimes when she’s in a bad mood, like, you know maybe you should get a job. You can’t just do what you want all the time.

And all I can do is sort of smirk under my breath.

LOL, do what I want.

Doing what I want would be eating pizza and playing tennis and binge watching an above average Netflix TV show. Or chasing girls and drinking or partying or something.

Something FUN.

And you know, throughout the ten years where I had like a normal job, that’s pretty much exactly what I did.

That’s more or less the perk of having a regular job, like afterwards, you get to do what you want.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes when I’m in the zone, writing can be enjoyable. There are those moments, you know.

But writing is like running. It’s like practicing piano. It’s a fucking chore.

You know exactly what I’m talking about.

You know because it’s why you don’t write more even though you know you should and you know you want to.

Because you hate writing.

I hate writing, too!

We’re not that different, you and me, you and I, you and us. We. We’re together in this.

And I mean, don’t get me wrong again.

I love the rewards of writing.

Like, I love the feeling AFTER writing.

I love the perks, the serotonin jolt.

There is no better feeling than having someone read your stuff and tell you that they liked it voluntarily, out of the blue.

Man, I live for those moments.

Those moments don’t pay the rent.

Yet.

But that’s OK.

My parents don’t charge me rent.

Yet.

Even better is when someone is like.

Yo, I went running, cuz you know, DONUTS.

😀

WODANG. BLISS. NIRVANA.

What a rush!

Who cares about rent!

But come on, actual writing?

It’s seriously the worst.

Every day is full of dread. The dread of having to sit down and just write.

There is nothing worse than that. It is both my greatest source of fear and also my greatest source of pride.

It’s just the worst.

I lay in bed wondering about what I’m going to write.

Do I have anything even to write?

No, not really.

And so I just lay there tossing and turning thinking about how I’m going to have to write the next morning, thinking about stuff to write, thinking about how the thoughts I’m having about future writing stuff is really trash, really garbage stuff that no one’s going to want to read after I write it.

Ugh, writing is the worst.

I hate it.

Life is such a big fucking joke isn’t it?

Like the stuff that you hate is the stuff that gets you going. Hate and love are basically the same thing.

God, life is the worst.

What a big joke all of this is.

And you know, it’s not even about writing.

It’s not even about writing!

Writing is just like one small tiny piece.

Because it’s about living the life that you want to live in the way that you want to live it.

That’s what it’s about.

IDK how writing found it’s way into that.

But it did, it’s there.

Like running and all that other stuff that I do that I hate.

That I hate so much.

That I do every day, the stuff that I hate so much.

Over and over and over again.

Day after day.

And then you keep finding new things to do that are just fucking chores, stuff that you hate doing, that takes every molecule of your body to grind out productively, to align in one direction, forward moving, man such brain power it requires, it’s so taxing.

Like reading. And working out. And being a good person and a good friend and a good son.

So much work.

Why do you keep piling it on, they ask.

Why!

Because, IDK, man.

What choice do you have, really.

Like the more you do the stuff that you hate, the more crappy and uncomfortable your days are.

It turns out, that’s when you love yourself the most.

The more you make sure your life sucks doing the stuff you hate, the more love you have for yourself.

And the more love you have for yourself, the more love you have to give. To give others, to give this world.

And it’s only when I have the most love to give do I actually write good stuff.

So I do it so I can write good.

But man, do I hate writing.

(Top photo: my parents chilling on the east bank of the Hudson on July 4. Not the greatest photo lighting wise in terms of Karl and Connie, but you get to see the nice sunset and the Mid Hudson Bridge. You’re welcome.)