Writing is a struggle with words, with blank space, with one’s very self.
I don’t believe the person that said. “If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life,” was a writer. They have never sat and stared at a blank page or suffered the relentless, mocking flash of a cursor on a blank screen you desperately wish to fill with picturesque words.
That person has certainly not come to life with inspiration, pounded out the keys that gave voice to their thoughts only to go back over what they wrote and think, “This is crap.” Perhaps, worse yet, to think it awesome and have the editor tell you, “This is crap” and know they are correct.
The real frustration is knowing the words lurk just under the calloused exterior. The writer knows they are there, they can hear them breathing deep inside… can see the pieces of the puzzle piled before them and no know where or how to begin.
The struggle is not just with the words or lack thereof, it is with yourself. In the words of an old song, “The kettle’s on the boil and we’re so easy called away.” Why look at a blank screen when there’s Facebook? There’s email begging to be read, popcorn to make, song to listen to… even the dishes begging to be done look appealing. Anything but sitting there in with a case of literary constipation.
Those that overcome to finish what they have begun are no longer simply writers… they are authors.