Writing prose and cleaning toilets

A neighbor whom I know well enough to greet by first name—hers and mine are the same—said to me yesterday, “You must really enjoy writing.”

“I enjoy it about as much as I like cleaning the toilet,” I replied.

Toilet with plunger and brush beside it.
I’d as soon clean a toilet as write.

She recoiled. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

Horrible, perhaps, but true.

Writing is my work. It’s not something I do eight hours a day for the fun of it.

I enjoy having written. When I finish something that accomplishes what it was supposed to do—introduce students PERT charting or drill sales people on the characteristics on an oncology drug—I feel good about my work. But the actual act of writing anything but a humor piece is work, and sometimes even being funny is a chore.

I can sympathize with students who moan about how hard writing is because writing is hard for me, too. But I refuse to allow students to dodge writing because it’s hard.

Writing is work.

Work is hard.

I don’t love writing.

Students don’t have to love writing either, but students must learn to do it and you and I must teach them how to do it.

We must teach students that not every piece of writing has to be art.

We must teach them to recognize when what they’ve written fulfills the assignment.

We must teach them that “good enough” is usually good enough.

We must teach them most writing they will be required to do in their lives will be a lot like cleaning toilets: something almost everybody can do, that almost nobody likes to do, and which they will often not be able to avoid doing.

Please excuse me now. I have to go write.

©2021 Linda Gorton Aragoni