Whether I read The Waste Land or Metamorphoses,
Much Ado About Nothing or Waiting for Godot,
The Karamazov Brothers or One Hundred Years of Solitude,
I am constantly reminded that there is more to writing
than writing. And I know the so-called ten thousand-hour rule,
but I’m also painfully aware that even if I double or triple that,
I still won’t be even remotely close to Whitman or Keats,
regardless of whether it is a matter of a gift from some gods
I don’t believe in or genetics and the fact that my brain
may lack the unusual setup of Einstein’s. But despite everything,
I keep writing because what doesn’t go away with adolescent acne
becomes a lifelong addiction.