It exposed the failures of my own writing; showed the true span of the chasm separating anything I've made from sublimity. The form โย substack โย reminded me, unpleasantly, of my nakedness: there are no handholds here for pride, no remote abstractions to assuage a procrastinator's conscience, no known writer-gods to forgive myself for not being better. I could not escape that I wasn't actually reading Houellebecq, or Knausgaard, or Nin.
This made me want to give up.
It exposed the failures of my own writing; showed the true span of the chasm separating anything I've made from sublimity. The form โย substack โย reminded me, unpleasantly, of my nakedness: there are no handholds here for pride, no remote abstractions to assuage a procrastinator's conscience, no known writer-gods to forgive myself for not being better. I could not escape that I wasn't actually reading Houellebecq, or Knausgaard, or Nin.
I'm embarrassed.
And I'm enthralled.
holy shit you can really write.
not all men lol