To be in a writer’s shoes is… paradoxical.
You can admire someone you’re jealous of, and are mostly jealous of talents you admire.
You never leave the house without a book/notepad and always forget the umbrella. You like people but not socializing, love messaging but don’t chat. Can spill your heart out on paper, often reenact scenes and foreign emotions out-loud when alone in your living room – yes, I know you do too! – but speaking bewilders and makes you stutter.
You spend half your time observing real people that would make great characters, and the other half comparing fictional people to friends and family.
There are days you can’t stop writing, weeks you can’t start; months you irritate people, years you frustrate yourself.
But mostly, you spend your life cajoling your words into the light and cherishing the shadows they originate from…