I’m not sure this is a statement I’d like to make for myself, but it’s probably true on more days than I’d care to admit. Either way, how could I not grab a picture of this?
And yesterday Nicco gave me a copy of Holding on, and in the intro this morning I read this.
My feeling has always been that I owe my fellow human beings, my fellow sufferers, I owe them a helping hand. I owe them a helping hand in whatever form I can extend it. While I’m alive I feel an obligation to exercise the long-dormant (or repressed) talent I have — in my case, writing. To me it’s an exercise in decency and humanity. It probably does me good too, gives me an incentive, a goal, mitigates the misery inherent in these pitiless eighties and nineties.
That was written by Henry Roth, who suffered a long period of writer’s block block between publishing his first novel, Call It Sleep, in 1934 and his second, Mercy of a Rude Stream, in 1994. It struck me as vaguely Buddhist, and something that I may want to try to apply to myself and my own writing; and the story of overcoming almost 60 years of writer’s block might serve as an inspiration sometime.
Anyway, just thought I’d share.