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I am coming to view the meditations and melancholy traditionally associated with being a writer as a something of a cross between stoicism and dharma buddhism.
To be a writer, you have to remain stolid, to keep on keeping on whether the world is for or against you. I think its all the peaks and troughs and plateaus of nothing.
Then, when someone gets you, it’s like Eureka, man! Like little fireworks pinging off in your head. Like the world has caught up with you in a good way. You belong.
It’s a beautiful feeling, validation.
But you can’t rest on this sun: it’s a signpost, not a bed. The next day might bring an equal or better goodness, or it might bring hard judgement and hurt. Through the praise and the rejections and the black holes in between you just have to smile, breathe, and look forward, further into this semi-obscura you’re hurtling towards.
You simply must. Keep at it. Keep creating.