Writing is so incredibly excruciating. Every sentence I write I read out loud five or six times to see how it sounds outside my fingers. Then I’ll stare at it for about another five to ten minutes and try to imagine how I can say it even better because it can always be said better. Then I’ll continue staring at the sentence and convince myself that I am a terrible writer because I cannot say what I want to say in a more precise, concise and eloquent manner.
This then sends me into some sort of an existential crisis as I come to the realization that I don’t even remember the multiplication tables anymore and don’t know how to file my taxes.
I have taxes to file?
Pushing aside the deep-seated angst and frustration at my lack of real-world skills, I log off Word and put on Netflix to browse for about forty-five minutes while still thinking about how I could have said that one sentence better.
When it finally hits me in the middle of some nineties rom-com, I run back to the document, write it and continue the cycle for the next sentence.
This may or may not be a factual account of my nightly writing ritual.