Writing isn’t hard for me

Quite the opposite.

It’s hard for me NOT to write.

For years, sex was my addiction. Nowadays, though I spend plenty of time on sex – thinking about it, planning it, doing it – it’s not sex that limits my productivity, that inhibits my intimacy, that holds me back. It’s writing.

Give me an hour, and I’ll write, almost always. Before I read. Before I talk to a friend. Before I do work of any sort.

On the one hand, this isn’t awful: (my) writing isn’t destructive, doesn’t harm anyone, and is of arguable benefit not just to infinitely navel-gazing me, but to some few hundred people who seem to be interested in what I write, day in, day out.

On the other hand…. what, really, is the point of all these words? Some of them serve well to get me laid. Some, to express myself. Some, to work through challenging questions. Some, to entertain, amuse, provoke, arouse. I suppose that is the point of all these words….

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