Self Indulgent Pretentious Wank-Fest

Actually, this was going to be a long and self-indulgent piece about what it is to be a writer. Why do we do it? What is the purpose? When do you feel you can call yourself ‘a writer’ in polite company?

Then I realised that the answers to the questions were simply; “Because we have to”. “Blah Blah Blah Something about being human”. And “I have recently come to the conclusion that a writer writes. You write? You’re a writer. End of.”

That’s all that sorted. Didn’t take long, did it? Can’t be bothered to change the title, though.

So, instead, here’s a picture to mentally and emotionally scar you:

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