Beginning is daunting; being in the middle makes you feel like Sisyphus; ending sometimes comes with the disappointment that this finite collection of words is all that remains of your infinitely rich idea. Along the way, there are the pitfalls of self-disgust, boredom, disorientation and a lingering sense of inadequacy, occasionally alternating with episodes of hysterical self-congratulation as you fleetingly believe you’ve nailed that particular sentence and are surely destined to join the ranks of the immortals, only to be confronted the next morning with an appalling farrago of clichés that no sane human could read without vomiting.
Well, that would be a nice occupation then.
He does go on to say that when he’s in the midst of things he does reach a state rather like enjoyment — but it’s not said with resounding confidence.
Perhaps not surprisingly, it’s Will Self who seems the happiest about his writing gig. The others? Not so much.