“Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.”
― Flannery O’Connor
So far, the process of writing a book is much like my own life – a roller coaster; manic, emotional, yet oddly fulfilling. There are days when I feel on top of the world and words flow seamlessly, one to the other, page after page. Although unfortunately, there even more days when the I feel my own black hole of insecurities and doubts take over and not a single word can escape.
Burdened by the reality of being a poor writer and artist, I often wonder why I’ve chosen such a “career” (if I can call it that.) After all, a nice high-paying job selling pharmaceuticals would surely allow me plenty of room to breath. Wouldn’t it?
Truly though, I suppose I’m experienced enough with in-authenticity to know that the air I’d inhale would be stifling, fake, and knowing me, I’d run for the hills. Boxes don’t suite me at all.
So instead I’ll remain here, on the fire escape, breathing in the manic and emotional air I’ve grown so accustomed to as I type away… and sigh