a thousand times this
I had the idea that the first thing I published would have to be a perfect piece of work. It would have to have a form and soul so powerful everyone just had to listen to it. For most of my twenties I thought coming to it was a matter of waiting until the perfect pearl formed in my mind. Eventually there would be enough layers on it and the thing would just demand to be expelled into the world. But of course it didn’t turn out like that. Instead, after I hit A Certain Age, and realized that I could not keep waiting for life to come to me, I just started publishing work because it felt like time was running out on something. Now I think, what it was running out on was my giving up on myself. I was very lucky because my writing got picked up quickly, I had the most wonderful first editor I could hope for, other editors picked me up, and before I knew it I could no longer shrug about Being A Writer, I was one.
And I was/am miserable.