I write because I’m addicted to writing. Otherwise I wouldn’t waste my time doing it; I doubt if it’s good for me. But I’m going to have to be more ruthless with life because Saturday nights aren’t enough to give me a proper fix.
Bukowski said that all he owned was a typewriter and a radio; he rented a room, drank wine, listened to classical music, earned enough to pay the rent.
It allowed him to write.
But me, I’ve got too much going on.
Stuff has to go.
I dunno. I’m just working this out as I do it. There’s no plan. No system.