Mississippi Mud

I once saw a piece of Flair on facebook (for non-facebookers, think of it like a bumper sticker, which by the way, this should be) that said "Writers Bleed Ink." It made me laugh. And, on some level, it's true. Hell, since I write longhand the first time around, it looks sort of true. I've always got ink on my hands somewhere. And maybe on my face,too, if I leaned on it for a bit. But the line also made me think of one of my favorite songs by Heartland (Yes, that's right, I like country. And I am not ashamed) called "Mississippi Mud."

The song is about a guy who stayed to work on the family farm in Mississippi (go figure) instead of going off to work in a city. He says he loves "a little house, a piece of land, making things grow with my own two hands," and that he's fallen in love with that Mississippi mud. When I hear the lyrics "I've seen so much Delta rain, it must have seeped into my veins," I can't help but remember the words "Writers bleed ink."

Writing is rough. The process is draining. The muse is temperamental, not to mention cruel. The rejection is killer. But we all still do it, because we love it. (Hell, let's face it, we're certainly not in it for the money, though some money would be nice. Not everyone can be Stephanie Meyer or J.K. Rowling, though that too would be nice.) It's tough. I know I'm not the only one beating my head against walls/tables/computer screens when the words won't come. We all deal with tough revisions. I don't even need to mention the pain of waiting to hear back from agents, or worse, the rejections that happen to everyone.

It's not easy. But, then again, it shouldn't be. We're all doing this because we feel something compelling us to. We've all got that drive, that determination to see this idea through to the end. And that's what makes what we do special.

It's in our blood.