Writing is a sickness. So much goes on in a writer’s head; they can’t sleep for it. There’s such a muchness inside them that they can’t breathe for it.
Writing is madness. Writers talk to themselves incessantly, expecting the unexpected. They expect to be surprised and enlightened by their imaginary friends. They submerge themselves in worlds that don’t exist, commit themselves to people who aren’t real; and every time something goes wrong, they only have themselves to blame. It’s a disgusting habit, and yet, writing is considered an acceptable pastime in our society, encouraged even. The rest of the world shamelessly benefits from these poor, haggard souls without consideration for the parts of themselves the writers lose along the way.
Writers are murderers, madmen, harlots, and thieves, the lot of them. They ruin lives for their own morbid pleasure, believe themselves gods of the worlds they design. Writers are sick, and they need our help. If someone you know may be suffering from this affliction, give them a hug, a bag of chocolate, and a word of encouragement today.
Writer, you’re a good person, despite any atrocities you commit on the page. Thank you for your work. You might not hear it enough, but you’re appreciated. What you do makes the world less horrible for the rest of us. Dear poets, novelists, essayists, screen and playwrights: many of us don’t know where we’d be without you. Thank you, dear writer. You are glorious, and I hope you know, if your mind ever becomes too burdened with all the wonder it holds, you can always share it. There is always someone out here who wants nothing more than to hold your hand through your journey and take a bit of your madness with them when you both go your separate ways.
I’m proud of you for writing, for continuing to write no matter how much it hurts personally or what awful things lying, jealous fucking no-talent bitches have said along the way. You are beautiful and wonderful, in sickness and in health, and you are loved always.
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