Like so many other nerdy, disaffected young people of that time, I dreamed of becoming an ‘artist’, i.e., somebody whose adult job was original and creative instead of tedious and dronelike.
That sometime human beings have to just sit in once place and, like, hurt. That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do. That there is a such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness … That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be. That God - unless you’re Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both - speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings, if there is a God. That God might regard the issue of whether you believe there’s a God or not as fairly low on his/her/its list of things s/he/it’s interested in re you.
I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I went whenever real life was too hard or too inflexible.
Many people, myself among them, feel better at the mere sight of a book.
This is the attitude you have to have as a writer. If you are writing merely to get published you’ll simply churn out what can be published and it will have no soul. If you write because you know you have to just to keep your passion and sanity alive, then your work will thrive.
Procrastination is the thief of time, collar him.