I am a reader who writes. People may assume I do these things to escape. And they couldn’t be more right. I’m escaping a world I do not like. In this world, I am nothing. I am a color, a height, a weight, a number. But in the world of books and writing, I am amazing. I am powerful. I am different. People are better. Worlds are endless. Change is possible. Life is manageable.
The most intelligent men, like the strongest, find their happiness where others would find only disaster: in the labyrinth, in being hard with themselves and with others, in effort. Their delight is in self mastery. In them, asceticism becomes second nature, a necessity, an instinct. They regard a difficult task as a privilege. It is to them a recreation to play with burdens that would crush all others. They are the most honourable kind of men: but that does not prevent them being the most cheerful and most amiable. They rule, not because they want to, but because they are. They are not at liberty to play second.
Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.
I had to do something for my grandmother
I won’t kiss ass, I have to be genuine in all I do and say. That’s why sometimes at work I’m just over shit. I don’t see how you can not like someone then act all buddy buddy with them then talk behind their back. This goes on not only in my 9 to 5 but I’m just saying….the fakeness baffles me