Writing and writers hold such a precious place in the imaginations of people who like to read fiction, so the idea that there's little actual spiritual comfort / joy in the process and the outcome, and that success, even in the limited terms of being published / recognized may not be enough is hard to swallow. In short, a fulfilling life can exist outside the production and consumption of fiction.
I've got too many books on the go, at least one in every space where I might want to read in the house. Beckett is in the little used dining room, while Dino, Nick Tosches' biography of Dean Martin, gets far more attention in the downstairs bathroom. Two men whose lives had little in common, except a fondness for drinking and bars. There are many approaches to being alive.
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