whatever, today. whatever.

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When the writing is not going well, it’s easy to spend too much time (which is really any amount of time) thinking about the people who have been taking fiction very seriously all along, who didn’t manage to convince themselves at any point that it was meaningless, self indulgent, impractical and therefore stopped. The people who published their novel at 23. The people who decided it wasn’t worth it, and instead became lawyers or rabbis or executives. The people who could walk away because they didn’t have the stomach or the heart, or both. The people who decided, somehow, that having a stable emotional inner dialogue was better than this. (Of all the people I sometimes wish I was, it’s never them.)

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