From The New Yorker:
The Writer exists in two worlds: the world he’s creating and the world in which he wears the same shirt a lot. The Writer successfully holds each world responsible for his failings in the other, a Ping-Ponging of accountability that frees him to wake up around elevenish.
The Writer feels uneasy referring to himself as a writer in the presence of others. He struggles to shake the sense that he’s an imposter and that at any moment someone’s going to ask him what an adverb is.
. . . .
The Writer refuses to allow criticism of his writing to sow doubt in other aspects of his life. He has other critics who specifically handle that stuff.
The Writer avoids distraction by disabling his Internet connection before he sits down to write. As a reward for this sacrifice, he allocates special Internet time for himself every three to five minutes.
The Writer understands that the nourishment he chooses feeds not only his body, but also his mind. He is careful to fortify himself with foods that are high in protein and carbohydrates and fat and sugar and Pringles.
Link to the rest at The New Yorker
It’s bad enough that someone wrote that crap, worse that someone else published it.
Did you really need to make things worse by putting it in front of me?
Dave
I liked the photos of the grand canyon.