Yesterday I wrote five hundred or so words that I love so much I just stared at them until around 4 am. Today it’s a fight.
Lately it’s been occurring to me that there are all kinds of reasons why people quit this. (Aside from the fact that we’re unlikely to make the sort of money that people feel like they’re supposed to make, or want to.) It never stops being hard, and you never stop wanting it, even though it is a weird, imperceptible thing to want. It means I’m not always nice, or available or likeable, or comprehendible. The fact that this is now okay with me is why I think I might be an adult.