On the Joy of Writing
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Escribes.

Mal.

Tu caligrafía es lo único que supera a tu redacción en este aspecto.

Garabateas.

Tratas de no pensar y que las ideas fluyan. Brainstorming.

Hace frío y tú encuentras maneras de sentir que ardes. Está en tu espalda, en tu frente, en tus orejas.

La pluma rasga el papel y tú… tú tratas de imaginar otra cosa… cualquier otra cosa.

Bloqueo del escritor. Es una put la palabra que buscas no está disponible. Alguien debe haberla tomado sin tu permiso. Probablemente el mismo que se robó tu orgullo y tus ganas de escribir.

Dudas. No sabes si continuar. ¿Para qué? Llevas meses intentado producir algo interesante. Todas las ideas empiezan ambiciosas y poco a poco empiezan a decaer como la comida abandonada en el fondo del refrigerador…

Estás frustrado. Evidentemente, no pensaste antes de sentarte a escribir.

Deadlines, obligaciones, cansancio y frustración. Ira. Decepción. Ahora entiendes cómo se siente todo ello. Esto es el infierno. O quizá esa palabra es demasiado –Word not available, please try again later– ¿Gloriosa? Infierno es gloria; tú yaces en purgatorio, jodido.

Página en blanco y más escritos chapuceros (palabra que no sueles usar y ahora empleas porque te sientes falto de vocabulario).

Te levantas y miras tu obra. O, al menos, imaginas que te has levantado.

Has pensado en esto antes de sentarte a escribir: "Fausto vendió su alma por talento y gloria. Tú la venderías por producir algo medianamente decente para poder irte a dormir."

Pero ni siquiera Mefistófeles se presentará a reclamar tu alma. Ya te has mirado al espejo fijamente, arcaica forma de invocar demonios, y sólo has logrado hacer bizcos por diez minutos. Menudo ritual.

Tu espalda truena. Estás harto. Comienzas a sospechar que nada alguna vez podrá satisfacer tus estándares. Al menos, nada que tú escribas.

Tratas de recordar cómo iniciaste el escrito.

Hace frío y tu espalda truena nuevamente.

Ahora lamentas haber iniciado en primer lugar.

No sabes cuánto tiempo ha transcurrido.

Te enderezas y sigues, dando vueltas y más vueltas.

La muñeca te duele, pero no has parado de escribir.

You write.

Badly.

Your handwriting is the only thing that surpasses your draft in its lack of quality.

You scribble.

Try not to think, to let ideas flow naturally. Brainstorming.

It's cold, yet you find a way to feel like you're smoldering. It's on your back, on your forehead, on your ears.

The pen scrapes the paper and you… you try to imagine something else… anything else.

Writer's block. It's a fucki the word you are looking for is not available. Someone must have borrowed it without your permission. Probably the same someone who stole your pride and your want to keep writing.

Doubt. You do not know if you should go on. What for? You've been trying to produce something interesting for months now. All ideas start ambitious and little by little they start to decay like food abandoned at the bottom of the fridge…

You're frustrated. Evidently, you did not think this through before sitting down to write.

Deadlines, obligations, fatigue, and frustration. Rage. Disappointment. Now you understand how it all feels. This is hell. Or maybe, maybe that word is too –Word not available, please try again later– Glorious? Hell is glory; this is purgatory in which you lie, fucked over.

Blank page and more bungling drafts (a word you are not accustomed to using, yet now employ because you feel like your vocabulary's lacking).

You stand up and look on your works. At least, you imagine you've stood up.

You've thought about this before sitting down to write: "Faust sold his soul for talent and glory. You would sell it in exchange for writing something moderately decent so you can go to sleep."

But not even Mephistopheles will come to claim your soul. You have already stared intently at your own reflection on the mirror, archaic way of summoning demons, and you’ve only managed to cross your eyes for ten minutes. Some ritual.

Your back cracks. You're fed up. You're starting to suspect that nothing will be up to your standards. At least, nothing that you write.

You try to remember how your draft even began.

It's cold and your back cracks again.

Now you lament having started in the first place.

You don't know how much time has passed.

You straighten your posture and continue, round and round.

Your wrist hurts, but you have not stopped writing.

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