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Writing is work, and it's hard. Even 20-some books in I have trouble with tenses, trouble with apostrophes, trouble with commas. I still spend time with The Chicago Manual of Style when I use em dashes and ellipses because I never remember where and how to use them.
But reading, now ... reading is pure pleasure, isn't it? Even if the book ends up being more meh than wow, we still have the anticipation of starting a new one. Chapter One is surely one of the most beautiful phrases anywhere. Am I right?
I never thought of reading as work. I have judged contests. I have read manuscripts for other writers that--no matter how good they likely were--didn't work for me. I've never been in a book club (I've never been invited. Sigh.), but I know from friends that sometimes they truly hate the selection their club is reading at a given time. Usually they finish the book anyway. I read The Scarlet Letter in high school and am still whining about it 50-some years later.
Well, yes, it is work. But, although I hated Nathaniel Hawthorne's writing, I still remember Hester Prynne's story. I think Hawthorne was brave to write it in that time period.
I remember that my favorite contest entry of all time was never published. It was a rollicking frolic of a Regency story during a time that Regencies were in great demand. I know that publishers asked for the complete, but Grass for Breakfast never appeared. Sherrie Holmes, the author, wrote for Word Wenches blog, but I never saw if she had books published. I looked for years.
I think of teachers, from probably third grade on, who give writing assignments. From book reports to "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" themes, to short stories, to essays, to journals, to term papers. They know when they assign them that they will have to read them. Every year of their career.
So, labors of love fits, doesn't it? Hawthorne wrote a brave story. Sherrie Holmes wrote (at least) one lovely one that I remember 20-some years later. Reading them initially was labor, but worth it. So very worth it.
And then there's the writing. I know it's work. Anyone who's ever sat in front of a blank page or a page full of irredeemable dreck knows it's work.
So is every other worthwhile thing I can think of. Relationships--especially the marriage and parent-child ones--are work, collecting things is work, playing any kind of sport is work, taking care of animals is work. And they're all labors of love.
Every single one.
Sometimes, I just really feel lucky. As writers, I think all of us here are lucky. Work on.
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