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March 8, 2015 by musehick

You sit and you write, and the people you love are away from you. Why do you write? Because you like to create, and in some dark recess of your mind you think that you might be able to make a little filthy lucre from it, and make a living doing the thing that you love.

You sit there, and some days the characters who you send so long listening to and urging along their way, they seem more real than the shadowy mystery of the life that you are living. It is a confusion, and it is one that you should work out before it damages you.

The bright lamp is set in your life, and it is the vagaries of dreams and imagination that are lesser. The light is not set in the stories you tell and your life cast by it. Sometimes we get confused by this, as artists.

A good life can be had, and great art can result from it – no one has to be fucked up and miserable to be able to create. Who is that going to help? 

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