When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.
Quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you’re doomed.
I am an electric eel in a pool of catfish.
Our families are supposed to model how we build intimacy. But they also model how we feel alone: our experience of loneliness in our families becomes a proxy for the way we feel lonesome in the world.
“I’m convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing.”
Excerpt From: King, Stephen. “On Writing.” Scrinber. iBooks.
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