I am beginning to think that the most useful book for writers might not be anything on craft or literary signifance, but one whose title might read: "Your Ego and You--How Not to Take it Too Seriously."

I don't know about other writers, but my ego around my writing is like a very shoddily put together raft made of reeds. When on the calm seas of praise or no feedback, the little raft keeps me aloft just fine and sometimes even seems downright sturdy. When under the storm of criticism or disappointment, however, it barely stays together and I'm choking up proverbial gulps of sea water. And this can change not only from day to day, but from hour to hour depending upon the circumstances.

It's not a healthy way to be. But then, show me a healthy writer, and I'll show you a very good faker.

These are the days when I think, oh God, why didn't you make me an accountant or a zoo-keeper? Why couldn't my passionate creativity be acted out in graphs and on calculators, or with large mammals rather than words?

Because if an elephant misbehaves, you're not as inclined to want to die for how bad a zoo-keeper you are (though I suppose your risk of death does actually go up). And with numbers you can always re-calculate. Besides, numbers ARE. They came with the big bang and are at the root of all existence (for those of us who don't believe in creationism). You can't make a number out of your own imagination precisely.

Oh but writing. Writing. What a strange and silly thing to do. What a wonderful and perfect thing to do.

Writing creates neuroses. Insecurity. Weak egos.

I need to hole up in a monastery, I think.

JPR