Complaining about things I shouldn’t complain about, aka Writing can be boring
Leaning forward with a glass of bourbon and ice next to me, hair frazzled. A human drama plays itself out in the background, all loud voices and chaos, but I can’t pay attention because I’m under the spell of inspiration, and as those words hit the page each sparkles like a shiny gold coin. Each sentence is a hundred dollar bill constructed with the power of my words. The keyboard is on fire with the rush of my work. It’s invigorating. Nah. The above scene is bullshit. Writing for pay is not always interesting. In fact, sometimes it’s downright boring. Hell, it usually is. I can still remember a time when that thought would have seemed preposterous. Get paid to write? Like, money and stuff?…
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