Hard than most

Miss Snark said each writer needs two of this book: The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life, by Twyla Tharp. Immediately, I ordered the paperback from Amazon. It arrived Friday.

I am scared.

Eight pages in, she debunks the whole theory that talent or "being kissed by God" will be enough to propel any artist to greatness. Based on her own life and the lives of other creative geniuses, she uses Mozart as an example, she states that being creative is nothing more than hard work.

Hard work. That's it? That's all? Crap in a hat.

A very good, trusted friend pulled my butt out of the self-flagulating, depressive fire recently. As I tore through two grammar books and a book on writing, I fell into this pit. Being dyslexic, how could I ever hope to become published? Swing a dead cat, I could hit someone saying, "I'm trying to write here!"

What's the point, right? At least, that's what I was thinking until my friend said, "So? It means you'll have to work harder. That's all."

That's all.

I can do that. I can read books about grammar and writing. I can read blogs and journals of writers, editors and creative-types, mining what I can about what it is I want to do. I can tear apart books with sharp teeth like a starving wolf, digesting their meaty, gory substance. And I can write, sculpt, and proof. I can put my stuff out there.

I can.

That scares the fucking shit out of me.