Beer in hand, book in the other.
No, I lie. The phone is in the other as I write this. The beer stays.
The urge to write is overwhelming at this point. I never know what about, as inspiration strikes I guess.
But that’s an armature’s work, to write only when inspired.
I must work on my craft. I must grind through it. We all need to grind at something to be good at it.
I am starting to understand why so many authors write when they’re drunk. Its free-flowing, liberating, completely consuming. Edit when you get sober eventually.
Not a quote by Hemingway by the way.
I’ll be back.
Be sure of it.