For a few months at the start of my medical residency, I got up every morning at 6, intending to — you guessed it —. But residency was a marathon of hundred-hour workweeks and one tragic case after another. Before long, I desperately needed that extra sleep, and the early pages of that earnest effort were surrendered to a shoe box. They would lie in that cardboard tomb for several years.
I wanted an agent! I wanted a book deal! I wanted a publisher! What was the point of starting small? But in the coming weeks, he helped me realize something important. I wanted to be published in The Times before I hadthe time. It took me seven years of postgraduate education to become a doctor. Why did I think becoming a serious writer would be any different?During the COVID-19 pandemic, it can feel like we’re on TV in ‘The Twilight Zone.
Once in a while, a friend or a stranger reaches out to me in a voice I would know anywhere, just the way another writer recognized it in me. They say, “I’ve always wanted to write,” and the pain in their words makes me sit up a little straighter, because I was there once, too, carrying that same deep ache in my heart.I always give them some practical advice, things that got me past the finish line: Don’t watch Netflix.
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