After the MFA

Not my words. George Orwell said it.

I’m reading Orwell’s essay, “Why I Write,” and this line pops out at me in bold, headline-size letters:

“All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery.”

I know I fit that description. And I like a good mystery. So, I’m going to sit back on my lazy ass and let you tell me more, Mr. Orwell.

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness.”

No argument from me.

“One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”

I’m right there with you.

I need these words, these solid, chewy nuggets of wisdom from Mr. Orwell. Just like I need to write. Like I sometimes need to sit down, do nothing, and call myself a lazy, vain, selfish monster. Yeah, I felt like giving up today. But Mr. Orwell spoke directly to me, affirming my right to be inert. Tomorrow, I’ll pick things up and continue.

If you haven’t read this essay — and I’m surprised I hadn’t before — and you feel like giving up, read it.

Related posts:

1. Where the Hell Is My Incremental Perturbation?