He sits down in front of the computer, contemplating why he sat down in the first place, and opens up the web browser, now by routine instead of want. Before he even realizes it, he already has his publishing site’s platform open, and the button for reports clicked.
He knows what he’ll see. He’s already seen it fifteen times today. Yet he does it. Compulsory.
And as before, he finds that nothing has changed.
He sighs to himself while finding that he stares at the empty report with a dejected feeling within the pit of his stomach. He knows he should expect no different. He isn’t even all that disappointed. Just wistful.
While off in thought, he finds himself utilizing the search engine to see if there, for some unknown reason, happens to be someone talking about him out there within the world somewhere.
Zero new results found.
The life of this writer, like that of many writers, is one of silence, of patience, and most of all, of wistfulness. Yet, today, not entirely different from most other days, yet altogether very different, he hears a nagging voice in the back of his head, a voice that questions his reasons, his thoughts, his purpose.
Why does he continue to put himself through this? Why does he continue to write? Why does he continue to put his work out there for the world to see, knowing that he simply does not have the energy, power, or motivation to convince people to read them.
This thought, he knows, is the same thought many other authors have found themselves facing, although the modern age has definitely made it much more easy to become completely dejected by the process. The modern age, where everything is instant…except validation…for authors.
The time spent behind this very same scene crafting worlds and characters and scenes, followed shortly after by destroying them all through unique sequences of thrilling fiction, is time well spent, he keeps telling himself. Although most will never read these items he’s created, and many who do simply won’t get it, he knows he’s created something amazing. Something new. Something different.
Yet, although he did all this expecting no riches, knowing there will be no fantastic success to come because of it, still he sits, thinking of the possibilities, completely unable to restrain his infinite optimism that pulls him into this line of thought which ultimately ends in absolute disappointment.
That disappointment, which constantly tells him to quit, to give up, to throw in the towel and turn to a life of much more mundane means, one that doesn’t involve godlike powers through the use of words, simply because that success he never sought, has never come.
The life of this author is no tragedy. Yet his mind wants him to believe so. Because when a mind is so focused on crafting drama, sometimes that drama comes into places it never belonged.
Yet, even though he does ultimately force himself to continue forward on his path of creation, that nagging force continues on in the back of his mind, telling him success is a necessary end to this hobby he so deeply enjoys. That nagging force, of course, causes that hobby to become something more, something it never should have become. Something which ultimately taints everything the writer does until he is unable to focus on anything else.
That, my friends, is why this author quits being one at least fifteen times a day.
And that, my friends, is why you should never pick up a pen.
This has been a community service announcement from an anonymous writer who has a love hate relationship with his art…