Writing is rarely something I enjoy. I hate rough drafts, and don't like to put anything on paper until I've rehashed it in my mind enough times to write about a page or so from memory. It is a difficult process, although once a longhand copy has been generated I can type it in and revise without feeling much discomfort.
I am occasionally satisfied by the final product, which is why I keep trying. The sheer number of improbable things in my life makes me want to write it down, because I've finally become able to enjoy the strange breadth of my life experiences.
Vonnegut wrote in his autobiographical novel Palm Sunday that writers were simply more tenacious than most people, willing to keep reshaping and editing an idea until it was worth sharing. It was one of his books I didn't read until this year, and while much of it was not new - his genealogy being frequent fodder in his canon - that was one of the parts that really hit me. Kafka published virtually nothing in his lifetime; that he has become a stalwart of intellectual discourse was mainly the product of one of his friends that posthumously organized the assorted writings and worked to establish his legacy.
I don't suffer the delusion that I will ever be a professional writer. The short story industry, as once held up by magazines, is dead. If I can muster the strength and dedication, I'd write another of the psych-biographies that seem so prevalent. Something to keep my autographed copy of Prozac Nation or the more recent Bloodletting company on the shelves. Perhaps if the stock works out.