Why? The question matters not. Write, write, write is the mantra
advocated by those who have gone ahead and attained the much seat of
honor where they spend glances on all the books they have written.
Millions and millions of copies propagate throughout various kinds of
hands, ranging from smooth and porcelain-like to grubby with
disgustingly unclean nails. It's a tall order, I admit. They're asking
me to defile the one moral code that I've upheld loyally despite
everything else. Leave no space or pause for the slightest
perfectionistic hesitance. But to ignore the flaws and plough on is
unlikely to result in a supreme masterpiece, a shining incandescent opus
reflecting the facets of oneself. Sentences are built upon other
sentences. No soothsayer can determine what words will come next, and
the subtlest change in lilt is momentous. It's useless to map out a
path. Writing is getting lost. Close your eyes, plunge through the
foreboding darkness, do not be intimidated by the absence of beauty in
the products that you summon forth. Constant transmutation will, after
tries and tries and yet more tries, result in gold. And it will be borne
out of sweat and tears and the shameful ashes of the rejected--it will
be yours alone.