I started a writing project last week; I have been up before dawn to work on it most days since then. I notice how energized I feel by the "work." My mind goes back to it throughout the day, considering narrative turns and toying with metaphors and similes. At these times I think: I am a writer.
I heard a story on the radio today about another writer: Zora Neale Hurston. Her novel Their Eyes Were On God is considered a masterpiece by some. Yet Zora died alone and penniless. Some say she was ahead of her time. I wonder what she thought.
I have been conditioned to work for external rewards, like one of Skinner's rats; it is difficult to create with no consideration to what others might think or fantasies of wealth and fame as a published author. Yet I suspect that true art only happens in that context.
I am trying to learn to surrender to the creative process, without the distractions of the rat race. I suspect that's what Zora did.
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