In the do as I say not as I do department, I am not really writing. I am totally absorbed by my work as an agent. And I don’t mean the selling side, which is also intense and exciting and draining in equal measure, but the reading and editing, the coming up with titles and sub titles, all the million hummingbird wings that lift a writer’s experience. I have been doing this a long time, plowing these fields, finding rocks in the rows. I know these doors and the fear behind each one. The hideous, glorious free fall, the finality that doesn’t end, the constantly evolving narrative of self and ego. Here is the forest and here are the trees. My life’s work as tailor, midwife, spy in the house of love. One of my writers who travels far and wide said I belonged behind my desk. But I heard curtain. There is simply nothing more difficult than cracking words out of your ass.
What keeps you from writing?
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