Writer's Life

Part of the true writer’s life is enduring loneliness. It is a self-induced curse. Friends become secondary to our literary children. We are ever concerned that they are well behaved. This occupies our thoughts and actions much too much. We sit at our keyboards or in front of paper pads gripped by an anti-social monomania. And when we are not developing our aging infants, we open our dusty mole eyes and wonder where time went. What outlet did the days bleed to? When did the passing seconds leave? The loner’s life is our shifting happiness. We walk around with a drink in one hand and a pen in the other. Our minds are locked in a desperate struggle that none of us will ever win. Our accomplishments are lasting, but they are a woeful form of self-worship. The only god we have is our own morbid souls, and our eternity lies in our printed words.