Last night at the Oscars, Robert DeNiro said, “The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination and consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing and soul-crushing inadequacy. And that’s on a good day.”
Romantic nonsense, I thought. Real writers get up in the morning, put our hands on the keyboard, and make some prose happen. We’ve got a job and we do it.
Went to bed last night and had this dream: I’m in a big bookstore with about 300 people in the audience. I answer a lot of nice questions and then push my luck by asking, “Is there anyone who didn’t like the book?” About 200 hands go into the air.
Woke up with feelings of panic, self-loathing and soul-crushing inadequacy.
Epitaph went to the publishers three weeks ago. I’m still waiting for a reaction. Can you tell?