Брейнингер горит

The truth of the matter is, most writers lead rather dull lives. They spend most of their time squirreled away in a basement or an attic with a word processor writing and rewriting, paranoid that the public might find their finished product silly, trite, or stupid. Some writers occasionally go to parties, but at the parties they're thinking about their writing. Knowing everyone expects them to be witty and profound, they usually keep their mouths shut, unless they are tanked to their blowholes, because anything they say will be weighed, judged, and misquoted.
The message is this: writing itself is not glamorous, exciting, or romantic. It's hard work. Rewarding, yes. But damn hard.
It is also a lonely process. It's a struggle with your own creative powers and self-doubts. Sometimes the writing flows out of you, gushing like rapids down a mountain gorge. Other times your head feels like a block of concrete and you can't squeeze anything out of it. Sometimes you reread what you've written and you think you could train your dog to do better. Other times you know what you've done is brilliant beyond your wildest expec- tations; you show it to your agent and he suggests you maybe should try a nurse romance.
No wonder the suicide rate among writers is high.

Thank you, Mr. James N. Frey.

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1.4K viewsedited  May 20 at 06:14

The truth of the matter is, most writers lead rather dull lives. They spend most of their time squirreled away in a basement or an attic with a word processor writing and rewriting, paranoid that the public might find their finished product silly, trite, or stupid. Some writers occasionally go to parties, but at the parties they're thinking about their writing. Knowing everyone expects them to be witty and profound, they usually keep their mouths shut, unless they are tanked to their blowholes, because anything they say will be weighed, judged, and misquoted.
The message is this: writing itself is not glamorous, exciting, or romantic. It's hard work. Rewarding, yes. But damn hard.
It is also a lonely process. It's a struggle with your own creative powers and self-doubts. Sometimes the writing flows out of you, gushing like rapids down a mountain gorge. Other times your head feels like a block of concrete and you can't squeeze anything out of it. Sometimes you reread what you've written and you think you could train your dog to do better. Other times you know what you've done is brilliant beyond your wildest expec- tations; you show it to your agent and he suggests you maybe should try a nurse romance.
No wonder the suicide rate among writers is high.

Thank you, Mr. James N. Frey.

BY Брейнингер горит