If you’re like me writing is not a choice.
It is something you must do, a compulsion, as essential to your life and well-being as air, or water, or sex. We’ve all tried holding our breath, or felt the cottony sludge of a parched throat; don’t even tell me you haven’t had a lull in the sack.
So you know, then. You get it. You love books like you love air, and you want desperately to write a few. You’re the one this blog is for. Because I don’t know many people like you, and it’s rough, isn’t it? Plugging away day after day, pale and reclusive, writing like your life depends on it. Because it does, doesn’t it? This thing you have to do, it’s not a hobby, it’s a purpose. You know it, deep down, even if the world doesn’t yet. It keeps you in that chair for thousands of hours with little hope for recompense. It removes you from the ordinary pleasures of the world, this state of constant preoccupation, this hulking beast that must be born or eviscerate you in the process. There is no vacation for a writer.
It’s a mad, twisted calling, torturous and all-consuming, spending years in the creation of a piece of work that may or may not be read. But it may. It just might. They just might love it. But they surely won’t, if you never write the thing. That’s what this blog is about.
That, and some other stuff. Books and whatnot.