Let’s be honest: writing is a bizarre way to spend one’s time. You sit alone, wrestling with a blinking cursor, trying to arrange words in an order that won’t make future you cringe. It’s like building a house of cards in a hurricane and calling it art. And yet, here we are—writing, rewriting, and occasionally pretending we’re Hemingway after two espressos. Why?
I particularly think reason 1 is my favorite and reason 2 is just a bonus
Love itQ
Enjoyed your post, and the new story is superb. As usual.