On Writing

So I intern at a boutique literary agency in the lovely city known as New York. My job is to run whatever errands my boss wants me to, (anything from picking up his dead dog’s ashes to getting him a camera charger) and read manuscripts. I have yet to read anything spectacular. In fact, everything I’ve read with the exception of one can qualify as utter crap. I talk a lot about this with one of my co-workers and he said to me,

“A lot of people think anyone can write a book. They don’t realize that not everyone is a writer–in fact, most people who think they are, are not writers.”

I could not agree with that more. I believe you’re born a writer, the same way someone might be born an actor, or a painter or anything artistic–because being great is so much more than knowing how to do something. It’s more than just the mechanics of artwork. It’s about seeing something in a different way, about instincts, feelings–things that can’t be taught. A good writer never decided they were going to be a writer, they always just knew. They have to write like another has to breathe because it’s who they are, it’s their existence.


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