People tell you that you’re organizing the angels the wrong way. You tell them there’s no such thing as angels. They suggest a teacher, a book, a writing class, more yoga, less yoga, or stronger coffee. No one will suggest no coffee.

Then, you get the angels organized, and you take your spectral camera and take a picture. Most people ignore your picture. Some people love your picture. A few people give you a one-star review. “Less angels. More demons.” Or…”I liked it, except for the pin part. Maybe a sardine can next time.”

I then think, taking this into the first person, that I shouldn’t be trying organize angels on the head of a pin. I should do something else. I ignore the praise, the money, and the five-star reviews. This is too hard. I shouldn’t be doing this.

Then? I look at a picture of the angels I took a few months before. I don’t know how I was feeling at the time. I don’t remember how my back hurt, or how far the coffee shop was, or any of that. I simply look at my picture, of those angels, and I cry. Because I love it. You don’t have to love it. But I love it. And I was born to do this. I was born for the work, and the isolation, and the bullshit. Because book writing is mostly bullshit.

And that is what what it’s like to write books.