I am my own worst enemy where writing is concerned. So so easy to get into that who will ever (want to) read this? mentality . . . so hard to get out again. Must press on though . . . When I was young, I remember reading in a childrens book about a penguin (!) who wrote a novel. But he wrote it in the sand on the beach, filling the entire beach - and it lasted precisely until the next high tide. And nobody read it. As I get more and more bitter about the world, all art of all kinds is starting to feel like that. A crazy luxury yet absolutely vital to survival . . . and the tide is definitely coming in. And when that tide finally comes in, then I guess the world will end.
Posted on: Sun, 05 Oct 2014 20:42:14 +0000
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