Right now, it feels like writing is just this on-again-off-again thing. In the month of April, I saw this huge swing of inspiration coming my way, the words came so easily and the ideas wouldn't cease. I wrote all them down so I wouldn't forget them later and put them into either my current projects or future ones. I guess it was the closest thing I've ever experienced to what people like to call "young love."
But then, that dreaded ending that is cliché to young love.
I guess with any relationship you've had for a while, there's those days where you feel like you hate them. (Wait, that's not normal? Oh. Okay then.) I get like this with the piano, too. It's like I love these hobbies so much, I end up having moments where I loathe the thought of them. For the piano, it's that recurring feeling of, "Why am I even doing this?" Kinda like people having those selfish thoughts in a relationship where they feel like they're putting a lot more into the relationship than they're getting out of it.
I've devoted years and years of blood, sweat, and tears (and literally, in many cases) of trying to learn how to play the piano. And then I get those moments where I just feel like giving up because the wall of impossibility rises before me and I find out that there's no way I can ever cross that hurdle to be better. My hands are too small. I didn't learn the piano "the right way." Despite years of practicing, my skills only lie in "beginning advanced." I've been in that space since middle school. I'm stuck in that respect. New piano lessons are helping, and that feeling has been at a minimum lately, but considering the cyclic nature that seems entrenched in my being, I know the hatred lies behind the corner. It's only a matter of when.
For writing? That feeling of, "I hate this so much right now" doesn't come often, but when it does... well, you get a rant-y post like this one. I feel like I'm stuck. I can't get any better. How I've written three years ago is how I write today. Sure, my vocabulary might be a little bigger than it was before; but other than that, the impossibility wall is there before me. I try to strike a balance of creativity and going-by-the-book in writing, but it's difficult. I want to follow the instinctual writing I do, but I also want to make sure I don't lose the reader. Sadly, it ends up being a botched amalgamation of the two that I ultimately give up working on.
I do this all the time. I work on the project, I get multiple chapters in, the story is at its climax, I reread what I wrote; I hate it, I scrap it, and I forget about it. Maybe this is perfectionism. Maybe this is just a lack of commitment. Whatever it is, the scrapping of work is a symptom that frustrates me to no end.
I guess to draw the parallel to playing the piano, I do this in that area as well. I find a piece I want to play. I try to learn it. Sometimes I get it, if it's within my ability. Oftentimes, I don't and I give up. As much as people think I'm a virtuoso, I'm not. I'm looking at one of the virtuosic pieces I have in my library. I can't even play the first page. I've had this thing taunting me for ten years already.
There are a few instances where my love/hate of the piano and love/hate of writing differ. I have a solid support system in place with the piano. It's been established in my family that I have this skill, and it's one that they enjoy. Among extended family, among family friends, etc.; being a pianist is something they associate with me. They're aware of my limits and capabilities, and they accept this. I don't intend to let it be anything more than just a hobby.
Writing, however... I don't have the same support system. Everything I write, the encouragement to continue writing just one more scene/chapter/project/idea is all from me. And unlike being a pianist, I do intend to do more than letting it be a hobby. It's been a life-long dream of mine to publish something, to prove to my family that it's not some worthless aspiration I have. Until relatively recently with enrolling in Creative Writing, all of this support was uniquely from me. There was no outside influence from my family, from my friends, from family friends; no one. And I guess that's why this hatred of writing hurts me a lot more than I expected it to.
Anyway, if this doesn't make sense to anyone, I'm just ranting. Yet another project finished, and still those closest to me just don't care. If they don't care, why should I?
Sure, I'm probably thinking irrationally and like a petulant child. It'll pass. Hopefully.