In the meantime, when you’re waiting, make big mistakes. Fool around. Do things you’re not proud of. Be brave when you reveal them. Love, and leave. Hurt and be hurt. You learn all about yourself when you do these things, when you take a little time to fuck around.
How do you find things to write about? They ask. How do you become a writer? They ask. What makes you a writer? How did you come to deserve such a title?
The thing is, you don’t become a writer.
It’s not a craft you can learn, like a blacksmith or a plumber or a car salesman. You just write. You feel the need for words building up in your throat and your fingers when you’re a child, and you continue to scribble for the rest of your life.
You clog up notebooks, napkins, scraps of paper and the Notes section of your phone with bits and pieces, with the things that are so busy making noise and plugging up your brain. You write about everything you see. Nothing that happens to you is fully processed until you’ve written it down. Everything significant in your life is tattooed down in…
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