A photo of a quote of yours, the one about creativity and taste and perseverance, spent a couple of well-worn years as my wallpaper. I would like to thank you for that.
But I haven’t written in a while. I pretend I don’t have time. Maybe I don’t. But maybe I do.
I’m a little behind, but the goal is that continuous writing will lead me to the right connections, lead my mind to the ideas of which it is capable, if it is capable.
It doesn’t have to be good. But I have to think it is. An offender and a victim of delusion, and repeat.
I write because I have to. I show other people because… Maybe I don’t show other people, really.
Do I need them to find me funny? Or smart? How shallow is that? I’m serious. How shallow is it? It might not be. It could be normal, but I’ll never know.
I write what I wanted to say, not what I actually said.
My first book is a preface. My first life is one too.
I’ve never left the workshop.
If I write something, people might think I believe it.
The most insightful ideas come from getting inside someone’s head concerning how they view you, how you believe they see you.
I write about what I know or what I think I know, or think about what I don’t know and write how I would if I knew about it.
The characters are extremes because they’re all a part of me and they need to be easily distinguished or distinguishable.
Not all thoughts need to be unique and insightful. Sometimes they’re just thoughts. Maybe they’re universal, probably they’re not.
I need to surround myself with creativity. It will make me better.
Saying I’m finished is admitting defeat.
I’m not a writer anymore. Maybe I never was. But for now my delusion has evaporated.
Wait. I can only finish the story when it’s over.

March 3 – Ira Glass gets some insight into how I see the part of me that writes
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