I can add nothing poignant to this post. But you should read it.
If you’ve been here long enough you know I’ve been working on my second book for the last three years. I’ve carried it with me every day, adding a paragraph here, deleting another there, reworking a sentence for the eleventieth time because I want it to be perfect, always feeling like a loser because Stephen King and cocaine set unrealistic expectations about how easy it should be to write a book. If you know me in real life you’ve seen me lugging around a giant manuscript and scribbling furiously in it when inspiration strikes. You may have asked me why I don’t just use a laptop and then nodded in what you hoped passed for understanding when I explained that I was afraid I’d lose everything I’ve written when the robot revolution happens and computers become self-aware and refuse to humor me anymore because I wasted their potential watching videos of baby hedgehogs in bathtubs.
When I was deciding…
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