The True, Unglamorous Life of a Writer

Let me be unglamorous and honest about the actual furniture of a writing life. What do my private, invisible days look like? What does it cost and what does it pay? (Rarely in the same currency) What is my writing for? I need to answer this honestly. Sometimes I tell myself it's a drum, a kettledrum pounding in my head. The act of transferring that from my mind onto the paper or screen. That answer used to satisfy me, but it doesn't anymore. For there's a cost to the body and relationships by turning the inside of your head into sentences every single day. If you've ever wondered what it would actually take to do this for real then I'll try to provide something useful here, or at least some good company. I apologize for the sheer amount of navel-gazing in this blog post. If you aren't interested in metablogging and an author talking out loud while holding up a mirror, then I joyously recommend you skip this one for the sake of your own sanity. I've answered the question "why do I…