Why do we go on?
Why do we persist in the reality of probably lifelong rejection, which hurts no matter how often we experience it?
Why not become a teacher or a gardener or a preacher or a cop or almost anything but a fiction writer?
The same is true for nearly all serious artists, writers, musicians, painters.
The answer, in short, is that we must go on because we are crippled and mad and lunatics and the work itself is our drug.
I don’t know of any rehab for this problem; there should be.
Suicide is prevalent.
Poverty is all but guaranteed.
As well as estrangement from most family members who continually ask why, why, why? You are so smart and so educated. WHY?!
Unless you are lucky enough to have an understanding patron, a sympathetic family member, or a devoted partner to help and support you, you must accept that you are most probably doomed to be very lonely. After all, writers work alone. Think alone. Create alone.
Please consider that this writing life is harder than you ever imagined. And I can offer no hope for you.
Choose only if you have no other choice. If the fire in you burns so intensely that you can live with societal failure all your life. And if the work feeds you enough, drives you enough that you simply must continue. That there is no other choice.
Why Do We Go On?
by Lilith Moon
Black Lotus by Lita Lepie
"Possibly one of the most artful colloquial narratives of the past decade."
- E. Cohen
"My only criticism is that it wasn’t long enough..."
"...film noir in a book..."
"Awareness of race, gender and sexual orientation shades [Black Lotus] with great depth..."