A writer’s life is never understood, envy by many sought by many as each seeks to find the reason they must write. A.G.
My talent for writing has done me very little good in my life.
It’s sad, but it’s true. People have told me that they have gotten a lot of pleasure out of my writing, and that makes me happy to hear, but the fact is that I haven’t gotten much pleasure from it.
When I’m doing it the process feels… necessary. I wouldn’t call it pleasurable, in the sense that playing in the water or eating good food is pleasurable. It’s more like the satisfaction that comes from fixing a broken machine. It feels good to have done it, to have solved a particular sequence of words. But the work… it’s work. It’s often frustrating and always difficult.
The finished product hasn’t brought me much joy, either. And I don’t just mean financially, although it’s true that I haven’t made any real money. I mean interpersonally. People like my work–some…
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