As of this year, I've been writing online for eight years. The same story, day in day out since I was eight. Writing is something which is infinitely frustrating as it is comforting, especailly when it's a character you've grown up with almost all of your short life. There are days which seem endless and you can't seem to form a coherent sentence and there are days where the words seem to flow out of your entire being and you can't seem to type fast enough to get all your ideas down.
Days turn to months. Months turn to years. Years turn to decades as you wonder whether you've wasted your time on something so difficult, so meaningless yet you can't help but wonder.
Is it too much?
You take a break for a while, start to doubt if you'll ever see the end of the story. Ideas fade, plotlines twist into nothingness as the block creeps in to break you down.
Those who jest that writing is easy, have not met the beast of the brain. The monster of the mind which forces you to submit. To give up all hope of returning to the land you so lovingly created. The characters you shaped in your own likeness and ambitions. The plotlines you weaved from thin air and endless experiences.
Being a writer will always be hard.
Hard to create. To express. To cope with. To explain. To develop. To change. To believe in.
Creating something out of nothing, normally is.
Until you reach the final moment.
The last page.
Then the cycle begins anew.ns 18.104.22.168da2