Like a lot of writers, some days I feel pretty good about my writing. I’m happy about it, content for little blocks of time. They always end, but they’re very nice. I walk around with a smile or I’m ready to smile very easily.Strangers seem kind. Everyone likes me immediately. Children are drawn to me. If I happen to pass a Jehovah's Witness on the street, he or she tells me I don't have to worry about going to hell. Something of my satisfaction radiates.
Other times a certain quote repeats itself relentlessly in my mind. It describes both me and my writing with cruel clarity. It’s from Shakespeare’s MACBETH.
“It is a tale told by an idiot
Full of Sound and Fury
As you may imagine I walk around looking haunted because I am, well, haunted. People look the other way when I walk by them. Waiters bring my food late or give me the wrong orders, stores send me the wrong things, telemarketers call with annoying frequency, I drop things on my toe.
Some people bring their work home sometimes. Our work is always home, always wherever we are. Sometimes it’s distracting, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes irritating, sometimes depressing. It’s a great struggle. We’re lucky in that way.