August 17, 2011
At this very moment I lay on my couch with a pillow under my head thinking about all of those lost pages. All those sheets of paper that I’ve balled up, torn apart, and thrown away. All those deleted files. Out of all those half written stories, plays, and poems that I couldn’t bear to finish what if I made the mistake of throwing away the wrong one?
Writing is such an isolated undertaking and I’m sure if I had the right person looking over my shoulder while I composed a story and whispered into my ear that it was amazing before I got the chance to hate it and tear it to bits, then my life would be completely different by now. But there are no cheerleaders for obscure writers. There are no groupies that like our hip lifestyle. There is only the writer by his lonesome and if he does not believe in himself then he is left with nothing but an aborted thought and a thousand pieces of paper scattered about the ground beneath him.