Wherever this... this thing——writing, storytelling, or contemplating——that I do come from, from talent or plain stubbornness, it's definitely taking more from me than what I bargained for. Not that I don't have any idea of what I'm really getting into in the first place, but the longer I write, the more this job turns... insane.
Am I really a writer? Would I still be sitting in this wooden chair if I have enough money to live everyday in comfort? (Will Internet access become free of charge and eating sweets free of guilt?)
I dread to think of how many more times I would ask myself "Am I really a writer?". How far can I go? Will my books turn into hit movies someday?
"If you find yourself asking yourself (and your friends), "Am I really a writer? Am I really an artist?" chances are you are. The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death."
-Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles
Yes, okay, I hear you, man. And thanks to this book, I've been sitting in front of the computer, every single agitation-and-depression-filled-day, writing or not (except when thunder and lightning are all over the place).
But I find myself writing more nowadays, so I guess I should stop complaining and get back to my manuscript... But, hell, NO.
Not until I rant about what writing has done to ME.
But I find myself writing more nowadays, so I guess I should stop complaining and get back to my manuscript... But, hell, NO.
Not until I rant about what writing has done to ME.
