Writers are bums, did you know that?
Reading, thinking, sleeping, going for a walk, a slice of pie, a coffee, all that scribbling away.
The books, the piles of notes, the mess.
Finding, or remembering, some esoteric quote and sprinting back to the computer from the other side of the house.
I mean who lives like that?
Writers live like that.
And it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“Lastly, I focused on my pictures. I spread them across the bed. Most of them went into a souvenir pile, but those of the incense burner at the grave of Akutagawa had merit; I would not go home empty-handed. I got up for a moment and stood by the window, looking down at the lights of Shibuya and across to Mt. Fuji. Then I opened a small jar of sake. I salute you, Akutagawa, I salute you, Dazai, I said, draining my cup. Don’t waste your time on us, they seemed to say, we are only bums. I refilled the small cup and drank. All writers are bums, I murmured. May I be counted among you one day.”
–Patti Smith, M Train