Musing about writing

One of my favorite authors once observed that writers have peculiar egos. They spend much of their time working very hard in solitude, sure that some total stranger will surrender  their hard-won free time to read their work. Yet,  the most the writer can hope for is that when the stranger closes the book, they may say “Well I guess he wasn’t a total boffin after all.”

Yet, we still write on. Why? Some people like to go on about how you’re liberating the soul from the pain of existence, or some such. Personally, I believe that it is because we as writers are blessed, or cursed, depending on who you talk to, with having experienced something unbelievably pure and cool in existence. We can’t help but try to share that with others and go “Look! See how cool that is? It’s a perfect rose!”

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