Mumblings.

I like to write. I use to love it. I remember carrying a pen and notebook wherever I went, never knowing when the chaos in my head would turn into something meaningful on paper. Well, at least I'd like to think it was meaningful. To me, it was almost sacred.

I remember how it felt when the unformed thoughts were about to overtake me --demanding to be written down, urging me to give them life. My heart would beat faster as a sense of urgency attacked my being. I remember the frantic scramble to get my thoughts down least they escaped me. I remember the thrill. I remember the pieces and pieces of scrape paper I would find in my purse with incoherent scribbling at the end of each day. I remember the pleasure I felt at perusing each one again and again.

Writing gave me a sense of purpose --a feeling of satisfaction.

Now, writing is my profession. What I've always hoped and never thought would happen. 

I write for a living, and I find it agonizing.

I agonize over every comma, colon, and dash. I agonize over the clarity, readability, and consistency. I agonize over the first sentence again-and-again-and-again, and still feel like it isn't quite right when I hand over the final draft. I find writing draining. 

I remember when it use to fill me. 

Those who write are weird. They write for themselves alone. It is a completely selfish undertaking. It's not their hobby, a mere pleasurable pastime, it is a necessity for them. Just as birds fly, writer's write. 

It is hard to write for others. It is too personal --for them to scoff and criticize and tear it apart. It is hard to compartmentalize your life's bread from your lifeblood.