I got up on my feet and went over to the bowl in the corner and threw cold water on my face. After a little while I felt a little better, but very little. I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room. -- Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely
I used to write for fun.
Now I'm a reporter for a major daily newspaper. I kind of forget why I wanted this in the first place. It had something to do with getting paid for writing, but this kind of writing is, as I was warned, much more like stuffing sausages than like creating poetry.
I spend much of my life riding the ragged edge of depression and insecurity, both of which I believe to be essential to my success as a person and as a journalist. Without the insecurity -- without the certainty that people are talking behind my back about my being a slacker, about my not being as good this week as I was last, without my certainty that even if they aren't saying it, it's damned well true -- I'd stop fighting to do better every time I put fingertip to key.