I used to think novelists wrote books, edited them, and spit them into the world. I'm sure some people do that (I'm looking at the mangled literary horror-shows by Mr. King), but many more than not don't.
I used to think writing books was easy. It's not.
Oh my gosh is it not.
I have developed a new appreciation for authors now. Mediocre stories included, though they don't obtain the exact same credit someone with a more credible story would naturally receive from myself. (Mr. King...) Regardless, they too have earned respect.
Being as hard as it is, I've gained a new outlook on the books I read. What may take me a weekend or week to read could have been the culminated stress of four years trying to figure out how to make the character say the thing in a correct way. Where, in the grand scope of the story, the author may have tossed out fifty versions of the exact same thing happening under different circumstances.
Yeah, it's pretty hard, if I haven't said it enough by now... especially making them say the thing to the thing with things happening all around them. Without 100% knowing if the thing is good, of course.
In the blinding spotlight of all of this I'm, in the end, thankful that this is what I do. I can't imagine doing anything else despite how frustrating it may be at times.
That's a little steam I needed to evacuate from my system. Not searing steam, but the kind that comes off the lid of your freshly made microwave soup. It's hot, and moderately annoying if exposed to the skin for too long, but nothing some cold water and a few vulgar words can't fix. This blog may not make sense to those few who read my blogs (what few there are), but I figured this is as good a place as any to get this message out in words.
Now, back to writing 4,000 words for the day outside of extensive writing assignments. Yay! = D