I sometimes fall into the trap of believing that no other writer has struggled with the issues I struggle with, when, in fact, every one of them has. Logically I know this. Yet emotionally I imagine that my life is brutally crowded with too many things to do, while others relax on their verandas with glasses of iced tea and secretaries. It’s telling that when I picture other writers, they are never writing. They are never sitting at their desks under the weight of producing p...rose. They are never seen sitting at their desks with words brilliantly flying from their fingers onto the page. When I picture other writers, I always see them with their writing behind them, as if I am the only writer that has to actually write. I envy others, no matter how good I am or how good others perceive me to be. Poor me.
I forget that a writer can struggle with his prose and then go off to clean a toilet. Or a writer can struggle with his prose and then go off to face a Quant class. Or a writer can struggle with his prose and then relax on the veranda with a glass of iced tea and a secretary.
