For some reason there is tangible, touchable, suffocating angst in this air this week. Angst and restlessness and a huge heaping helping of existential crisis thrown in for flavor, all about writing and how to be a writer and what kinds of writers we are and whether writers are better than blogggers (besides, bloggers aren’t real writers anyway) and oh–is that my head that just spun around 60 times and flew off my body, landing in someone’s Chicken Ceasar Salad?
I’ve never seen more posts and comments and essays and tweets about writing from those who don’t always discuss it–is it dead? Do I suck? Do I suck if I don’t have a book deal? Is SEO ruining writing? Shouldn’t I have made it by now? Why does everyone hate me? Is the universe out to get me?
(Yes, yes the universe is out to get you. Haven’t we all learned as much by now?)
