I knew this anyway but it’s painful to see it in black and white:
The above blog, belonging to Claude Forthomme, lays out the facts as barely as possible and it’s caused quite a bit of fury. The problem, as I’ve seen it for quite some time now, is that there are too many writers. I myself feel like a teeny tiny voice in a vast ocean of teeny tiny voices, while the loud, ugly ones get to smash up against the shore. Why bother to carry on writing when when the whole world seems to be at it and getting their crap out there more successfully as well.
It’s at this point that I remember why I write: I write because if I don’t, I will go mad. I will be a lunatic in an asylum smashing my head against a wall over and over and over just to make the pain of living stop. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be a robot in a robotic job. I want to be me. And I am only me when I write. Even if no one ever reads it.
Sometimes you just have to say fuck’em.