ego on the landing strip

at a gathering of the ambitious and on-the-rise, one is egged on relentlessly for all the wrong reasons. the things one overhears - "being a woman writer" "right time for stories like this" "faces like yours" - true or false, are easy on the ear. they are like fortified food pellets that make an animal stop yearning for the effort of reality. it is opium. easy to see why so many crumble in its company.

takes a nudge to make you realise that none of the things being said are complimentary to the writing. far from it. cash in on your gender, age, intensity, sexuality, or on friend-in-the-ranks. have lunch with the production man, don't leave anyone off the book launch guestlist.

one is almost compelled to keep writing - anything - just to keep hearing the gratifying purr, to smell the fragrant, slightly inebriated warmth. the room is a feast. you feel beautiful. there's nothing social or beautiful about writing. writing is cumbersome and lonely and it wrings you. this, on the other hand, is so easy.