He couldn’t write to save his life, evidenced ad nauseam; nor would he want to burden words with such an execrable chore
It wasn’t writer’s block, no – not that he thinks he deserves the moniker – it’s rather akin to a nietzsche niche
There isn’t much that occupies him, though he’d come to welcome that particular distraction from his quotidian routine
Often, however, as with most of his endeavours, the struggle is finding a reason to continue, other than “for something to do”
It’s clear that his style – if, in fact, he can be said to have one – is never going to win him favour, or a place at the writer’s table
His writing is now little more than a masterclass in insipid repetition, a neverending exercise in ever rending prose…
art: Listen by Jeanne Bessette
I don’t think so!
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Yeah, well, you’re just super nice 😬
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Thank you and I am also honest. 😇
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Amazing.
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