The same could be said about writing:
“Trust me, you can write” – Wine.
The thing is I don´t drink wine – except hot, seasoned wine where the alcohol has been replaced by the taste of smashed grapes and sensual spices.
The more you get into a craft – and you only get into a craft by practicing it, DOING IT -, the more you realize how hard it is to master it.
As I move deep into the writing of my new book(s) and as I see myself growing with the new characters, places, scenes, dialogues and worlds that writing brings to the surface, I feel increasing difficulty. The more you know, the harder it gets.
The problem is not in the first draft – that´s flowing madness, pure and delightful, a series of orgasms. As it should be. I have to allow de free dialogue between my unconscious and my conscious, a partnership I don´t feel I should control, observe or criticize, while I´m writing. But then comes the cleaning, the revision, that
damned blessed editing. There goes my confidence: down the drain. Or almost.
In times of need, my religiosity grows exponentialy:
I hope my dear Hermes – I´m a Gemini so he´s my godfather -, inspires me with his wit, speed and clarity of thought and artistry.
I hope Mars keeps instilling passion, drive and obsession in this heart of mine.
I hope Saturn holds my focus and determination in his hands, rewarding me for the constant discipline, work and self-demand.
I hope Venus recharges me with her juices – there´s no great work without love and lust.
I hope for hope. In me, in life.
P.S: Nobody tells you how rewarding – or hard – this is.