Being a writer is so bizarre in its own kind of way.

I, personally, am kind of bizarre – especially when I’m writing. I’m part philosopher, part hobo, part artist, and part weirdo – all Nia. When I’m in my writing spells, I wear long, past-my-knees sweaters. I drink tea (well, I always drink tea), and, if I have to go into society and come back, I’ll drink the same cup of tea if it’s there – cold and all. My sentence structure has the potential to paint a beautiful picture. I have this deep well of knowledge, ideas, and theories within myself just waiting to be put on paper… or at least the synthesized paper that’s on the computer screen.

I mean, being a writer is wonderful, especially when you’re immensely pleased with your work, when someone compliments your work, or when you get paid for your work. Man, getting paid is a good feeling. The first time I was paid for my work was also the first time I’d been published outside of this blog and my college’s newspaper. Not only was I in the international magazine, but my piece was the cover story. It’s a cool thing. It’s evidence that your work is worth more than a good read.

But I’m not here to talk about why I like being a writer. Actually, with the exception of compliments and monetary compensation, I don’t think I like being a writer at all. I do, however, like writing… most times. I like the act of writing, but I hate being a writer. And here’s why:

I hate the uncertainty. I hate the second-guesses about my piece’s delivery. I hate questioning which angle I should use when analyzing a subject. I hate doubting whether or not my work is any good.

I hate being rejected. After putting my blood, sweat, and tears into a piece I think is good, I hate when publishers say, “Not good enough.”

I hate not being able to make sense… on paper. (Mostly) everything makes sense in my head, but often, I can’t find the right words that would accurately explain my ideas to other humans.

I hate burning out. There is this moment – this beautiful moment – when an idea overtakes you; and in that moment, you know in your soul that you must write on that idea. In your restlessness, you write what you can, but then life gets in the way. And then the burnout begins.

“I’ll get to it later,” is what I usually say. When later does comes around, though, the light is gone and the mood has passed. Only bits of the idea I had are written down, and only fragments left in my head. Then, that beautiful moment happens again with a different idea. And the cycle continues. Within a month, if not sooner, I’m backed up. Even now, you wouldn’t believe how many unfinished blog posts, articles, and ideas are saved as incomplete drafts.

I have drafts, on this very Blogger database, from 2011. Why so long ago? Probably because I, like most writers (I hope most writers), have convinced myself that several stories I wanted to tell, several theories I wanted to introduce, and several ideas I wanted to share weren’t worth telling, introducing, or sharing. So it goes. What a waste of energy.

I think burning out and uncertainty are tied for my biggest struggle.

I’m sure people who aren’t writers wonder why we writers allow ourselves to be susceptible to this emotional agony. I’m sure they wonder why we put ourselves in this tug-of-war of despair and happiness and anger and enlightenment and tea and long, long sweaters.

For me, I think the ability to create via keyboard makes the agony a little more bearable. I think creating something beautiful in spite of the agony is what makes being a writer worth it.

But don’t even get me started on why I hate being a poet. That is even worse.