The Work

You can’t count on it. Some days you can write and some days you can’t and it’s all a mystery.

So the Muse hasn’t visited you today.

It’s all so pathetic, isn’t it? Writing things no one’s interested in. For an audience of no one. That no one will even publish. By someone who can’t actually write.

At least you have ambition.

A stupid ambition.

At least there’s something that makes you get up on the morning – think about that.


I always wanted to write the perfect book, and then kill myself. The work, I called it. Everything was about the work.

And did you ever write it?

Maybe I’m trying to write it now.

And kill yourself? But that’ll never happen. Because I’ll never write anything perfect. Or even any good.