I have been reading a lot about writing lately, kept at home by the once deadly virus that is now a common flu. To my chagrin, whatever natural flair I thought I might have for writing, I might as well forget about it (for now at least). When it comes to, seriously, writing, writing is not just writing.
Writing is a craft, an art, as much as it is logic and science. There are rules and formula. It requires meticulous drafting and re-drafting with a magnifying glass, and more often than not, tedious research on the subject matter. Finally, it is all up to the muse of the day, to kindly sprinkle some fairy dust on the poor hardworking soul for some inspiration.
Is this realization a deterrent to me writing? No, but it is, for sure, a wake-up call from my highly romanticized dream of retiring as a writer (living in a mountain, with an abundant supply of champagne of course, don’t ask me how).
The process of writing is so different from how the readers experience the writings, that it is oxymoronic. Writing is lonely, even though the readers find company in reading. Writing is egoistical, even though the readers find empathy in the messages. Writing is painful, and the more painful it is, the better and more enjoyable a read it might be for the readers.
Taking a step back, these ironies are not just particular to writing. Any worthy endeavour seems to be similarly afflicted. Playing music, producing art, preparing a pitch, practising a sport … It seems that learning is never a pleasure, and life is filled with challenges because it is a learning journey.
Why do we still bother to learn? Why do we stay motivated despite the hard work? It seems like the little satisfactions that come with progress, like unlocking the next stages in a video game, is addictive to our psyche. There is a sense of accomplishment in completion, and more than that, a deep joy that comes with the confidence of mastery, when one really knows what one is doing. Of course, there is no limit to improving (only limited by the brevity of life), and mastery is just a more advanced level but never the end. As one improves more, maybe it is also harder to improve further at the same rate (imagine studying more to attain 100% instead of 90%). Perhaps, I could draw a pareto efficiency curve on this someday to economically determine when it may be best to stop learning. Anyway, as we advance, the joy from using what is already learnt gradually outweighs the pain of what is to be learnt (assuming one learns less and slower as one progresses). There, we will find net positive joy from doing what we do.
Maybe all this studious talking is a result of my deprivation of bubblies for the past entire week. All I really need is to pick up the glass again and I will always be motivated, while having so much fun in the writing process, without any deeper analysis.
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