In the last thirty minutes, I have gone from thinking about nothing but suicide and obsessing over other human beings . . . to singing the old remedies of Elton John and Morrissey. Oh yes, "I'm not the man you think I am." Aye, because all writers like us are constantly changing.
If there is any advice I can give (yes, I'm young, but time is nothing these days), I'd say to anyone who is 'aspiring,' like me, worry not about the reception, but the art itself. Worry not about being a prodigy, about being something special. Make your art special. Make your art the true focus, not yourself. Infinite Jest will outlive the passed soul of David Foster Wallace. Nirvana's music is and still will be playing, despite Kurt Cobain now floating in a million pieces in the Wishkah River. No matter what happens to me - whether I off myself in a final moment of mind-loss, or I die a tragic, quick death, or a lovely slow one - I would only ask for my art to live on . . . the two novels that contort in my mind, they have a chance, to live in this world, much, much, longer than I.
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