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These are the random thoughts of Robert's demented mind. Some might be creative, while others . . . are just downright weird.
I don't know why anyone would pursue writing as a vocation. It’s a soul-draining, self-esteem stomping endeavor. You must have testicles of cast iron to withstand the endless attacks. Sometimes the strikes come in the form of outside rejections; most times, you are the one smacking yourself with doubt like a deranged lunatic.
As I lay here on my couch, staring partially up at the ceiling and somewhat at my laptop screen, I have determined that my demented Jiminy Cricket is out to get me. He’s usually at his worst when I’m concentrating on retooling my latest MS draft. If I was quick enough, I would squash his noisy legs without the slightest twinge of remorse. Alas, I’m not fast. So, he lives and continues to grind those freaking appendages relentlessly.
Alright. I’m done wallowing in doubt and resentment. As a writer, it’s all in a day’s routine. The bi-polarness of this oppressive bout is now in the upswing.
Time to write.
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