No, it isn’t. Writing isn’t anything in
particular to different authors, or to a single author writing for different
purposes and different audiences on different occasions.
When Ernest Hemingway (or Red Smith, or
Paul Gallico) sat down at his typewriter and opened a vein, was it difficult
for him? Easy but painful? Gratifying?
Or all four?
Writing
isn’t a single skill, so even if one part comes easily – the conflict of a plot,
a provocative character, or unexplored setting – the next can require time and
effort, blood and sweat, to get the words right (as Hemingway said, for sure
this time, to the Paris Review).
Writing fiction is a peculiar
activity by any account. You sit down in
a room alone, ignore the actual world around you, and inhabit another instead
of your own devising. This imagined
world may be far worse than the actual world, crueler or more frightening, but
a writer chooses to linger there, constructing it image by image, sound by sound, word by word.
To do this requires some
generative ability to dream up new people, conflicts, and reversals, and some
critical skill to select and shape those ideas. A writer with ready access to his or her
imagination may find the first task easy enough but struggle over the second;
or a writer well versed in craft may have no trouble revising and editing but a
hell of a time unearthing new ideas.
Dialogue comes easily? How about description? Got a big vocabulary? How easily do your sentences flow, phrase
after phrase? You might have your basic
grammar down, but do you go with the proper word here or the way most people
speak? And is that expression current slang
or the sound of your generation?
Add
to the mix the importance of observing human behavior and empathizing with
feelings, and you have an idea of the range of abilities with which a writer
will have more or less facility. Then there's the difficulty of telling the truth, and the desire to see it in print. It can be a snap to fill a page with something that needs to be said -- or excruciating to write one word in lipstick on a mirror, or in dust on the trunk of a car.
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