A writer’s life is an endless collection of bits and bobs, odds and ends, and other assorted nonsense that don’t quite fit together. It’s like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle where the picture on the box keeps changing, then some sadist throws in a handful of pieces from another puzzle just to keep things interesting. 

Let’s start with the big one: creativity versus structure. Writing, we’re told, should be an imaginative, free-flowing process. Let your thoughts spill out like a burst dam, they say! But hold on, don’t forget to funnel that flood into neat little canals called “grammar” and “syntax.” It’s a delightful tug-of-war — on one side, the wild, untamed river of creativity, and on the other, the rigid, unyielding dam of structure. I’m the poor fool stuck in the middle, desperately trying to avoid drowning while constructing a coherent narrative. After all, readers don’t appreciate a deluge of random thoughts, no matter how “creative” they are.

I spend countless hours alone, hunched over my keyboard, lost in my own thoughts — I’m a veritable hermit of the digital age. But somehow, I’m also supposed to forge an emotional bond with my readers. It’s a bit like being a ghost who’s tasked with hosting a dinner party — completely alone yet expected to entertain a crowd. Sure, I’ll just step out of my solitary bubble, sprinkle in some empathy, and voilà, I’ll have a masterpiece that connects with people on a deep, emotional level. No, it’s nowhere near that easy.

Also, let’s not forget the delicate balance between inspiration and perspiration. I live for those golden moments when words flow effortlessly, and ideas spring fully formed from the ether. But then there are many more days when writing feels like trying to squeeze water from a stone. During those times, I must drag myself through the slog, fueled by nothing but stubbornness, caffeine, and B-complex vitamins. Keep going, the gurus preach, even when every fiber of your being is screaming to give up and go binge-watch something mindless. Somewhere in that murky mire, a great idea might emerge. It also might not, but who’s keeping track?

Finally, there’s the juggling act of balancing writing with the rest of life’s little demands. Writers are apparently supposed to prioritize our craft above all else, in order to churn out brilliance on demand. But then there’s the pesky matter of “real life” — spending time with loved ones, fulfilling responsibilities, and occasionally remembering to eat and sleep. It’s an absurd juggling, and I’m the clown trying to keep all the balls in the air while simultaneously dodging pie to the face.

Despite all these delightful contradictions, I wouldn’t trade this chaotic life for anything. I get a certain twisted satisfaction in wrestling my thoughts into paragraphs that actually make sense. Then, on those rare occasions when I manage to connect with readers — that’s the cherry on top of this messy, complicated, and often frustrating creativity sundae. 

But what do I have to show for navigating this circus of contradictions? Not just the occasional polished piece, but also a graveyard of sentences — phrases too clever to kill, too unruly to use. They’re the leftovers of inspiration, outtakes of my obsession for literary perfection. They don’t fit anywhere. Yet, they haunt me, waiting for a purpose I haven’t yet invented.

Then, what can I do with these fascinating phrases or even beautifully crafted sentences that don’t quite fit anywhere? They’re like puzzle pieces that belong to a different set than the one I’m building at that moment. So, I toss them into the ever-growing spreadsheet of “bits and bobs.” Here and there, I’ll pull something from the bin and it will magically provide some  out-of-context brilliance. Most likely, they’ll just gather dust waiting for their day that will never come. 

Funny enough, though, this very essay you’re reading now was supposed to be about something else entirely. But like most of my work, it shape-shifted halfway through, took a wrong turn at coherence, and landed us here — sifting through leftovers, a couple of which wound up in here without you the reader even being aware of it! That’s the beauty of holding onto the better odds and ends; even during my most productive stretches, I’ll dig up something from my archives worth remixing with a fresh idea!

So that, my dear readers, is the life of a writer: a beautiful mess of tension, scraps, and half-formed brilliance that somehow coalesces into something readable. At least, this is what I tell myself every time I look in the mirror and see a harlequin jester staring back, wondering how I ever called my writing a serious career. Most days, I don’t write masterpieces. I write jigsaw puzzles, and if we’re all lucky, I leave out fewer pieces than I add.

~ Amelia Desertsong