Another Sunday... She always hated Sundays....
She was sitting in front of the typewriter, trying to make the words make any sense. She hadn't written anything for almost a month now. The silky robe was hugging her body, leaving her legs uncovered. The sunlight was slowly filling the tiny study she had for ages, making her realize that she had been up all night.
She hadn't written anything for almost a month now. The editor was waiting for another article, but she had nothing. She hated writing for living, hated when was forced to write for certain hours, certain pages, and most of all certain people.
Writing used to be to be so much more fun when she was a little girl. All of her writings belonged to her and only her. She was the one deciding what to write, when and how. She had many different diaries and journals. She really enjoyed writing back then, when it was nothing more but just a hobby, a fun way to spend the free time. She always regretted the day when she decided to turn her hobby into a profession. People always say "Do what you like and you will never have to work a day in your life". That is so silly.
First it was fun, she was writing and discovered more about herself and the people who enjoyed reading her works. But then she learned that writing for selling is a lot harder then writing for your own joy. She had to take into consideration everybody's opinion but hers, and it was killing her. She had to write to make money, to have a job and writing started to become less and less enjoyable. She had lost the privacy in it. She had to lose her own style and ideas, she had to forget about creativity, originality, and become just like all the other writers that seemed so dull to her. She used to hate them, but now she was one of them.
Sunday... And here she was, in front of the typewriter, torturing herself, the machine, and the pure dog that really didn't like the sound of the typewriter. She had to give her article Monday morning, yet she had nothing to give, no single line was written. And somehow she didn't even care. She was just sitting there and aimlessly typing about herself in third person, about her poor dog that hated the sound of the typing machine, and about her crazy Sunday that was about to change her life...
That Sunday she decided to quite writing. At least that's what she told to the rest of the world Monday morning, and only she, her typewriter and her dog knew that she was going back to writing, real writing, writing for herself, about herself.
That Sunday changed her life....
She stopped being a "Writer", to start writing again...
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She hadn't written anything for almost a month now. The editor was waiting for another article, but she had nothing. She hated writing for living, hated when was forced to write for certain hours, certain pages, and most of all certain people.
Writing used to be to be so much more fun when she was a little girl. All of her writings belonged to her and only her. She was the one deciding what to write, when and how. She had many different diaries and journals. She really enjoyed writing back then, when it was nothing more but just a hobby, a fun way to spend the free time. She always regretted the day when she decided to turn her hobby into a profession. People always say "Do what you like and you will never have to work a day in your life". That is so silly.
First it was fun, she was writing and discovered more about herself and the people who enjoyed reading her works. But then she learned that writing for selling is a lot harder then writing for your own joy. She had to take into consideration everybody's opinion but hers, and it was killing her. She had to write to make money, to have a job and writing started to become less and less enjoyable. She had lost the privacy in it. She had to lose her own style and ideas, she had to forget about creativity, originality, and become just like all the other writers that seemed so dull to her. She used to hate them, but now she was one of them.
Sunday... And here she was, in front of the typewriter, torturing herself, the machine, and the pure dog that really didn't like the sound of the typewriter. She had to give her article Monday morning, yet she had nothing to give, no single line was written. And somehow she didn't even care. She was just sitting there and aimlessly typing about herself in third person, about her poor dog that hated the sound of the typing machine, and about her crazy Sunday that was about to change her life...
That Sunday she decided to quite writing. At least that's what she told to the rest of the world Monday morning, and only she, her typewriter and her dog knew that she was going back to writing, real writing, writing for herself, about herself.
That Sunday changed her life....
She stopped being a "Writer", to start writing again...