Literature
The Lonely Life of a Writer
The Lonely Life of a Writer
by p.b. wells
they call it the lonely life of a writer
like it’s some romantic bit of bullshit
invented by Hollywood.
the tortured bastard
sitting alone at midnight,
cigarette burning,
whiskey nearby,
rain crawling down the window
while he waits for genius
to knock on the goddamn door.
only sometimes
it really is that lonely.
because most writers
aren’t flying to Paris
for interviews
or laughing with movie stars
over thousand-dollar dinners.
nobody is begging them
to come on television.
nobody gives a shit
what they think about politics,
art,
love,
death
or the newest fashionable tragedy.
most writers are sitting somewhere
trying to get published.
or stay published.
or figure out
what the hell comes next.
a poem.
a story.
a novel.
a screenplay.
one miserable sentence
that refuses to become two.
then comes the writing.
then the rewriting.
then changing it back
to what it was three days ago
before deciding
it was probably shit both ways.
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