This realization hit me recently: I spend nearly all of my free time writing and drawing comics for a very, very small audience.
Boy, did this post come across my radar at a good time.
The truth is, most fiction writers spend our lives sitting alone in a room generating a product that has zero chance of ever making a penny—or even being seen by a person outside our immediate circle of friends, relations and/or personal stalkers.
So—not surprisingly—we occasionally ask ourselves that big, existential question: WHAT ARE WE—NUTS?
Trying to answer can plunge a writer into despair. So how do we cope?
The post is short on answers, but long on the truth of the situation. You just have to do whatever it takes to get yourself to sit down and do the work. Lie to yourself. Rationalize. Invent an imaginary world where you're Stephen King.
Whatever it takes to keep working and stave off the "Am-I-Crazys" for one more day.