A bunch of my writer friends are all starting novels at the same time as I am. It's fascinating to me (and incredibly helpful) because we all talk about how hard the process is. We gripe, swap pages, and exhult when things go right. We talk about how it can take an hour just to get to that magic state when the words start to unlock. How the premise can be slippery as quicksilver, leaving you to stare in despair at your pages. A friend sent me her first chapter, which wasn't working, at least ten times, and each time, I kept saying, no, no, no, nope, and then suddenly she sent me a first chapter that was perfection, and I don't know who was happier or more excited about it. I reminded her of all the times she had helped me--which included a couple of teary phone calls, let me tell you.
Another friend has brilliant pages that she was worried about and all she needed was a little bit to show the point she was making. A clear case of being so into the work, you can't tell what works or what doesn't.
Why isn't it easier?
And of course the better question is Why do we all love it so much? And the answer is How could we not? What is a luckier life than this one?