“We do doodily do doodily do doodily do, what we must muddily must muddily must muddily must, muddily do muddily do muddily do muddily do, ’til we bust bodily bust bodily bust.” So says K.V. Kinda got a “Bawitaba da bang” ring to it? Nah… it doesn’t. Better keep writing.
A Personal Essay by Danger Slater
Being a writer is hard.
Being a relatively obscure small-press writer is doubly hard.
Being a relatively obscure small-press writer who writes the sort of weird niche bullshit that I write is triply hard.
Struggling to find readers is Sisyphean endeavor. You splash links up on Facebook, bait the world with Twitter hashtags, maybe you stick pictures of your cat up on Instagram or share snippets of your half-finished poetry on Tumblr. You scream as loud as you can into the void, only to hear your own stupid voice echoing back at you. Days and weeks and months and years you do this, and in the end you’re still left with the same old questions. Questions about your self-worth. Questions about your skill. Questions about your devotion. You think: thousands of hours I’ve poured into this task, honing this talent, perfecting this craft. You…
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