My best friend ever has gone away. As a writer, I lead a lonely existence—often it means spending hours isolated with my thoughts. I know that my fan-base is tiny, my voice unheard. My best friend listened, encouraged, and provided inspiration. Recently she moved away and when I awake it is now later than my consistent 3:30 a.m., bursting with ideas. Now I find it hard to rise by 4:00, and the ideas are like a visit to the dentist. I want Fantasia back, but I know that can’t happen. Where does the forlorn writer go to find inspiration? Like Willy Wonka, my work lately has been suffering. I limit myself to editing since new ideas just can’t be conjured. Writing means that free time is largely spent alone—not the best way to make friends. I certainly don’t influence people. Yet, I can’t stop trying. Writing, as rational and heady as it is, is a matter of feeling. I try to express my complex and troubling...
Blog of a struggling writer.