I don't know how all the writers remain so smiley and confident about their work. For me words carry such weight. They're difficult to bear.
Do we believe, or are we just playing Dressing Up?
The words of man are transitory. I always grow out of my own writing before the ink has dried, turning my back on my it before wandering on.
You need to be a bit of a recluse - a misfit - to write. And yet to sell books you have to be a vain, egocentric, self-promoter. Hard work. How did J D Salinger, Cormac McCarthy and Harper Lee save their souls, despite their fame, from this dreadful parade of the ego?
Why do we have to behave like idiots to prove we're not a stereotype? Why do we have to rebel against ourselves? Enjoy the freedom to be shy