I can fuckin’ write.
(And so can you, probably.)
Here’s the thing — just a short note — reading back stuff (buku stuff from my past, recent and ancient) I come across and find some turn of phrase, some eloquent flourish of words I may have (yeah it was me) penned in the past, and I think, shit, I wrote that? Daayamn, that’s not half bad.
Like that flash of gold at the bottom of a pan, black sand slipping to the side, water’s ripple urging the skur of tans-and-blacks to move out-the-way. There! Yellow and stunning. That’s the feeling when you read something you wrote that just frickin’ sings. You wrote that. I wrote that. And it was poetry in prose. Pitchers of pulchritude in pottery.
It worked. (And worked well.)
Those glimmers of talent are everything. Absolutely everything, to a grub of a writer. Am I any good? Is this worth all the bloody trouble? Is anyone ever going to read me? I should quit — right?
Yes. Yes. Yes. No.
The end of all this? Write for yourself. If someday you come back and read what you writ, ages ago, and smile, chuckle or — if you’re cosmically good, drop a tear — then it will have all been worth it.