The title of this post? I said those exact words yesterday. I’m a few days from finishing this round of revision and turning it in. I’m a mess. I’m trying so hard. I have no perspective anymore. I’m forcing myself to work at a pace that’s unnatural to me—in my natural state, it would take me five years to write a good novel because I enjoy spending all day on a single paragraph and I like to procrastinate and make excuses and wait for the so-called muse to hit—and working at this speedy pace involves fighting myself and pushing myself and by the end of the day I am flat-out exhausted and aching and can only collapse in bed thinking of what I still have to revise tomorrow.

And yet.

Because last night, out loud, I whined that writing is so hard. And then I heard myself. I heard myself. Hard? This writing thing is SO HARD? Really? It’s “hard” to spend all day writing a story I made up in my head full of things that fascinate and inspire and tickle and terrify me? It’s “hard” to be able to write instead of having to be at my old day job? It’s “hard” to push myself to finish the draft of a book I love so I can show it to one of the most talented editors in my field, so she can then read it and help me make it better? Really, now… That’s “hard”?

That’s a phenomenal moment to be in, is what that is.

So, yeah, I felt like a dope.

And yes, writing can be “hard”—but in the most rewarding way possible, which means it’s really not so hard after all now, is it? Back to revising.