Two fellow writers (poets and artists, both) told me recently they've been working more consistently because of me, how seriously I take my writing. A musician pal said he admired me.Nice, right? (I say, embarrassed.)
Sure. Yes. Yep.
Hearing those things feels good, and reciprocal, because whenever I hear a friend's beats or read a killer sonnet, I feel inspired to go a little nuts, create something fresh, so original and frighteningly lovely that it might make you cry.
And yet, part of me wants something else.
Not admiration, so much, as passion.
I want someone to be crazy about me.
Someone to swoon over me. To think that I'm the shit.
Corny. Maybe.
You can't help what you want.
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