If people are offended by my books, or parts of my books, it makes no difference. It makes no difference if people don’t understand my books, or are bored by them, or are embarrassed. If people impart some or all of the character on to me, the writer, it makes no difference. If my books sell ten copies or ten million, if I spend more money on my books than they return, it makes no difference. It makes no difference if I’m still writing books in fifty years, publishing books, saying ‘I want to experience some kind of success’ without knowing what success actually means.
It’s funny because all these dark thoughts only exist outside of the writing process. While I’m writing, as each new word rolls out in front of me like a cobblestone footpath materialising under my feet, there’s no internal conflict. I’m just letting my feet land, one step forward and then another, again and again.
It’s only when I turn away from the computer screen and step away from the chair that the possibility of an abyss occurs to me, that I might fall on the very next step, that my foot might reach out to find that the path is not there.