On writing, and failing
“Someday I’d like to write a book,” they say, as if it’s akin to taking a stroll or, at worst, a difficult five-mile hike. But it’s closer to scaling a mountain. Scaling a mountain with dozens of rest stops along the way, each with a sign that reads, “Sorry, mountain unclimbable. Turn around and go home.” Those with the notion that writing is some haven of ease and comfort, that it’s not a constant daily struggle of epic proportions, just. Don’t. Know. Of course, then you get those aspiring writers who are, to put it charitably, a bit delusional. They think their every word is gold, refuse to learn the business side of writing, and feel a sense of entitlement. They’re entitled to praise, they’re…
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