So I started writing again, out of the blue, really. I thought it was over. I thought I had grown out of it. No more writing. Writing was a pipe-dream. That's what I'd always read. It's too hard to make it as a writer. It's impossible to get published. Nobody wants to read literary fiction, anyway.
Guess none of that was enough to stop me.
People are either embarrassed or intrigued when you tell them you're a writer. The embarrassed ones feel sorry for you and your affliction. The intrigued ones secretly hope that you're going to write about them. Many people ask to read your work, but just as many aren't remotely interested. They like sci-fi. Or romance. Your depictions of real life depress them. So it goes.
It doesn't matter. Being a writer is a good excuse for lots of things. It explains my reclusive habits, my nosiness about the details of stranger's lives, my penchant for staring dreamily at the wall. People expect it, really. I'm a writer. I say that now. Will I "make it" as a writer? Who knows. It's true that it's very difficult to get published. But I'm not going to let that weigh on my mind. I'm just going to write all the stories I need to write and if they're good enough, somebody will find them. And if not, I guess I'll be a writer anyway.
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