Writers are watchers and lurkers, to a degree that in any other profession would be considered creepy and would probably lead to a trip to Human Resources.
Cutting out a sentence that you love is like ripping out a shard of glass you’ve stepped on. You know it has to come out, but you fiddle with it gently tugging until the area around it is red and swollen until finally you have to rip it out completely, ruthlessly so you can walk on it and get moving to the next destination.
No writer ever thinks his work is good enough. Even top sellers visit their baby in a book store, pick it up to admire it’s beauty among the stars, and promptly find something they wish they’d changed.
A writer is merely a story teller in the written word. Chances are they’ve been telling stories all their lives, often to the torment of family and loved ones.
Every writer has that moment when they want to throw their laptop across the room and take up an easier profession, like Lion Tamer. Usually closing the laptop and pouring a glass of wine until the feeling passes is the better answer.
For a writer, the critique process is much like trying to stand still and politely smile while someone picks apart your child. You really want to ball up your fist and…
When the words are on fire we become loners, wishing only to ride the wave until it ends. Nothing else matters and we’d let the world around us burn while we sat on the only fire extinguisher just a moment longer to capture those fleeting words. So yes, we’ve purposely cancelled dinner plans with you in favor of finishing that chapter.
We can’t wait to finish that book, then want to cry like a baby when we have to say goodbye to our imaginary friends, and instantly start plotting the sequel to avoid said goodbye.
Yes we really write in our underwear from time to time. It happens.
Our loved ones don’t understand it either, they’ve just learned to work around our obsessions.