Let’s face it: as writers, we’re expected to be passionately in love with our work. Married to it. Shackled to our computers or notebooks, struggling to forge a great story out of nothing, bearing every pain and struggle with the strength of our ambition.
It’s society’s idyllic writerly image. Beauty wrought of struggle.
But that struggle? It’s supposed to be fundamentally literary. Writer’s block. Plot holes. A wrangling of theme and motif. No one talks about a completely different type of struggle: the external struggles, the ones that fall outside of the realm of the craft of fiction.