I am a writer. I write things. Sometimes--okay, most of the time--those things involve profanity, insensitivity, and a certain level of crass humor. Also, I like to rant. A lot.
My day job is populated with the worst books you can imagine. And I don’t think that’s an exaggeration—they’re crap. They’re the worst titles in the history of bound printed material, and many of them are an offense to Gutenberg.
So, sometimes when the noxious climbs too high, I have to switch over to something online and read something well-written, something with aspirations and hopes that will make me remember that sense of wonder about the versatility of words that made me want to be a writer in the first place.
I read those fine words, and feel that sense of “someday I want to write like that,” and I sigh.
Then I hold my nose and click back to the day job work.
Because I have bills.