I hate writing!

In the book "Bird by Bird," the author says to write 300 words EVERY DAY. She says, if you feel you have nothing to write about, to write about the reasons you hate writing. So here it is.

I hate writing because it is the opposite of living. If I want to DO something, there is always a choice to be made: to do it, or to write it? Imagining doing the thing is different from actually going through it, and-gods forbid-possibly getting bored of the thing!

I hate writing because it requires me to sit still for entirely too long. My butt starts to hurt after 20 minutes. I need to run around and exercise, call someone, check my e-mail, go to the library...
I hate writing because it is so often required to be organized. I like random. I'm bad at organizing.

I hate writing because it's so easy to put down crap. The words in my head don't equal the words on the page: my writing looks dumbed down, whereas in my mind it felt true and beautiful and formal.

I hate writing because it takes so long to read, and most people won't bother. A lovely voice or a beautiful painting can be taken in within minutes, but reading a true piece, word by word, takes far more time to appreciate.

I hate writing because my sentences and paragraphs, and my characters and scenes, are always flat in comparison to those of my favorite authors-they seem so original and lifelike.
I hate writing because I am afraid of what other people will think. When they read the way I write, they see inside the way I think (although it is somewhat more organized on the page:) and my opinion is freely expressed, and sometimes altogether made up, and I worry that they might not realize that I’m not really a lesbian, I’m just trying to write about someone who is, or they might think I really agreed with the Bush administration, when really I HATED it.

I understand that a big part of writing has to do with style. Your subject damn well better match your style, and your story and characters better make sense in there too. I know that if I write a story in which I am, say, a lesbian, and a Bush-lover, and my reader believes it, then that’s a great thing! I just wove a lie that they fell into! But I’m not a very good liar, and I worry that this might never happen. And if it does, like I said, they might actually believe me...

Since writing is essentially make-believe, and therefore false, it is a little bit like lying, which I hate. So I hate writing!

Night fades in like shadow during summertime. And the clouds with this rain block all light that may be emitting from the moon. Is it dark? Full? Waning? I know not.
Every day moves like glee, as I work at the farm, driving a 92-year-old man around in the durango, smiling at every driving "correction" he makes. "Use your mirror when you're getting into the lane," "Don't slow down!", "You're going too fast!", "watch it now..." It's more amusing than irritating most times. When we come back to the farm, I feel like I'm home, the 32 to 40-inch great danes come wagging their bottoms toward me, Gypsy (wobblers) nearly knocking herself over, she's wagging that damn tail so hard. The tail of a dane is like a pure leather whip. A fresh puddle of pee in front of the fire place. Newspapers tossed haphazardly over old puddles around the rest of the house. Blanket-covered couches against the walls, a black-and-white picture of Carlene (the head honcho, or the pony-leader) walking a pig by leash through falling snowflakes. She's smiling. To anyone who knows her, a smile is a rare treat.
I come home, sit in front of the blank screen, and wait for a story to hit. It never really does. So I write what I know: about the dogs, about Carlene, about my sister and how she gave herself bangs, about my parents and their terrible marriages. I try to steer myself away from writing about the junkyard I grew up with, or about my grandmother's bus. I write about Abby, or at least think about writing about her. I write about fake people I have never met, but who I want to exist, if only so that I might have someone to talk to. I write about all of my ex-boyfriends, over and over again, trying to puzzle out their issues, and mine as well, having dated them.
But mostly, I write like this: I write about writing about things. I know it must be done, but haven't yet been able to bring myself to do it.