I skip ahead in the book I'm currently reading with a certain guilt. Its grim squalor and constant downbeat tone are getting to me, and I feel guilty because somehow I've got it into my head that this is the type of book I should want to read (and therefore write) and my inability to stick with it and see it through to the end is indicative of all sorts of other moral failings, primarily my inability to finish my novel.
I get off the train and and walk through the concrete cave of the station to the stairs leading up to the exit, toying with the idea of packing it all in entirely. There's a certain peace that might come from giving up on the ideas I've had since I was a child of being a "famous" writer (or, indeed, a famous anything), and just being some dude; but then I realize, that's kind of what I'm doing anyway, so why even go through the hassle of "giving up?"
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