Recently, I've come to question my purpose.
Reading the classics of literature, I've lost all sense of why I write. Do I have really anything to say? Can't a story be told for a story's sake?
I've also come to question my humanity. It appears that I lack a fair amount of compassion. But isn't humanity what makes a great writer? If so, how do I gain it? Or is there something wrong with me?
I can't imagine never loving the craft of writing. But, apparently, I have no idea of what writing really is. Don't tell me that I'm not meant to be one--it's the only thing I can do.
Am I really a writer?
Or am I just a sad oxymoron?
Reading the classics of literature, I've lost all sense of why I write. Do I have really anything to say? Can't a story be told for a story's sake?
I've also come to question my humanity. It appears that I lack a fair amount of compassion. But isn't humanity what makes a great writer? If so, how do I gain it? Or is there something wrong with me?
I can't imagine never loving the craft of writing. But, apparently, I have no idea of what writing really is. Don't tell me that I'm not meant to be one--it's the only thing I can do.
Am I really a writer?
Or am I just a sad oxymoron?