Writers are whiny bitches.

My father taught me many wonderful things and filled my childhood with strange and wondrous stories that I probably can’t go into here. If we know each other in real life, ask me about the anaconda or the princess and the eunuch. (BTW, I didn’t know what a eunuch was for many of the years he told me that story, so I just pictured a professional wrestler in Aladdin pants, and I was TOTALLY wrong.) I am pretty sure he is where I developed my love of story telling.

He also taught me how to castrate a man with my bare hands and to never turn your back on someone you have shot unless you have put two rounds in their chest and one in their head. My dad is full of bad assery.

More importantly, I watched Dad work hard, every day. My dad’s purpose in life was to take care of his family and his dogs and he still does it. His work ethic was, and still is, incredible. (I see it in my sister, and it is one of the many things I respect and love about her.) In their worlds, you work. It doesn’t matter what is going on in your life, you work. Sick, hurt, depressed, it doesn’t matter, they work.

It is quite inspiring actually.

It is also something I wish I could emulate. I try, I really do, but I am a whiny bitch. I think it is a thing all freshly minted writers feel.

I have been writing my entire life, and I have been told my entire life that I need to be a writer, but until late this summer, I never considered ever actually deciding to write professionally and not do anything else. It becomes a completely different critter when you make that decision. It changes from something you do when you have time and inspiration to your job.

You might not get paid for it. Others might not understand what you do, or grasp that you are actually working, but it is just that, a job. And, in the example of my father and sister, if you have a job, you do it no matter what.

I sit down in front of my computer most nights, I would say an average of five a week, and intend to write. Some weeks I do great work. I work for 5-8 hours a night many nights in a row. When I am deep into a project, I can work for days without days off and lose all sense of time.  It is a glorious manic rush.

Other nights, though, I do everything but work. I play games, surf the interwebz, read, anything. Sometimes it is an inability to focus, or simple procrastination. Other nights I will try to work and have a hard time getting into it. The cliche about immersing yourself into the world of your story is a cliche because it is true. Writers have to inhabit whatever world they are writing at that time.

This is how I spend many nights.

Sometimes finding that immersion is damn near impossible for me. Stress, moodiness, lack of sleep, physical discomfort can all leave me blinking at my screen. If you throw other people in the mix, it can be even more difficult. Every time you make a writer come out of their world for any amount of time, you have broken hard fought immersion and set them back. If a writer is in the middle of a manic rush period and you take them away for a significant amount of time, they are going to have to work to get it back.

This irks me to no end. My father never missed work because he “wasn’t feeling it” or “stress was killing his mojo.” I feel like I should sit down and write no matter what. Anything short of a productive night is wussing out. That isn’t how it works, though.

I am finding I am getting better at re-immersion and I can do it quicker. I don’t know if it is practice or that I am writing more interesting stuff. I think it is just on the job training. You can read all the books, take all the classes, or search the entire internet, but the only way you learn your process is by doing it. Others can offer you ideas or hints that might help, but ultimately being a writer is all on the job training, and you have to train yourself. It is kind of screwed up.

Hug the whiny bitch writers in your life. Also, maybe provide them with booze.