Last night I had quiet an interesting conversation with a professor of mien. We talked about lots of stuff, but mainly about writing and how hard it is, and yet in paradoxical way, how enjoyable and fulfilling it is.
I don’t know how other person finds it, but for me it exasperating to sit down, and keystroke by bloody keystroke write a work of fiction.
For in my mind it is crystal clear, it is perfect. Yet once it comes out it slowly degrade, until it is unrecognizable from the ideal I had in mind. In a way it is a perfect example of Plato’s perfect ideas theory. Everything in our material world is but pale reflection of an invisible perfection.
However once I have written what I planned to. Once I applied all my effort and skill, the result is so fulfilling. Although it may be bad or inadequate compared to other literary work or standards, yet for me it is a culmination of an agonizing effort, and that in itself the achievement. The feeling that I finished something, that I built an edifice, no matter how it looks, the feeling of achievement is magnificent. It is in the end what drives me thru the hard process of writing.