There’s apparently a theme circling ’round this blog these days, much to my surprise (by this particular theme, I mean).
This is first hilarious, and then not, and then rueful and wise. I’m glad (and lucky) that I never hated the part I love most. (Well, except when it won’t cooperate, but that’s what makes it interesting).
But I secretly drew a line in the sand at Twitter. Most prostitutes have their boundaries, and for me tweeting was the one act so degrading I had to quietly take it off the table.
Most writers are closet exhibitionists, shameless only on paper, and having to perform and promote themselves is a kind of mild custom-designed torture . . .
I learned the meaning of the German word “sitzfleisch” — literally, the ability to sit, to spend serious time at something, devote your sustained attention to a single subject for four, six or eight hours, and resist the impulse to get up and take a break or check e-mail when you get fidgety or bored. I became a more disciplined person than I’d ever imagined I could be.
When you’re doing any kind of serious work, one of the most hazardous distractions you have to figure out how to ignore is the interference field of hope and anxiety associated with the results of that work, its imaginary payoff.
The part you hated was your favorite part.
All true —. Glad he wrote it. Glad I read it. And damn! I’m STILL the luckiest person in the world.