I Hate to Write

In theory, I love to write. I have thoughts. I have ideas. And in my head they effortlessly combine to form eloquent sentences in a beautiful and poetic voice. In my head, I am witty. And funny. And every thought can easily be transcribed into interesting anecdotes and blurbs. In reality, I hate writing. The bright white light of a computer screen is an eye sore. The blinking cursor is immovable. An empty page is overwhelming daunting. And confronted with it all, I freeze. It is happening right now. I am intimidated by the thought of writing about hating to write. I can start a sentence. Then, the process of translating it from my mind, through my fingertips to the keyboard and onto the screen, becomes too much of a task and interrupts my thought process until I wind up with a jumble of disjointed words. A rambling sentence such as that last one. Writing is rough. There is the rough draft. The unbelievably rough chore of editing and attempting to make something readable out of random words. And the roughness of wondering, after all that, is anyone even going to read this?