Writing is fucking. Words, music. You fuck the material and a novel is born. A short story. A play. A song. A chamber opera.
The process is focused and intense. Mind, body. Sometimes soul, sometimes not. Intensity does not guarantee engagement. You can fuck a whore. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. You write for money. You take the money and run. It's a living. But it is not engagement.
When engagement happens, you are actually there. All of you. Fucking becomes epistemology. I fuck, therefore I am. These children – the books, the plays, the stories, the music – are born from love. A different concept entirely. When you put these children into the world, it matters to you. You can't take the money and run. Maybe there's no money at all. Or little at best.
You put your children into the world and have faith that you are not murdering them in the process. You believe there's a world worth entering out there. You believe your children can have a good life. They will have friends. They will grow and perhaps have their own children. They play a part in a cosmic cycle. It's called Literature. Music.
There is no guarantee any of this will actually happen. You keep the faith that it will.
But sometimes something else happens.
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