Who Writes the Books

You write it.

It sucks.

So you write it again.

Still sucks.

You wonder who you’re kidding—

calling it work, calling yourself a writer.

It feels like a joke.

A hobby playing dress-up.

But you’re still here.

The world didn’t ask.

It’s not waiting.

There’s no audience.

No prize.

Just that thing in your gut

that keeps hauling you back

like a bad habit you can’t shake.

That’s the hinge.

Not love.

Not talent.

Not some myth about "calling".

Just return.

Dragging your sorry ass back to the page.

That’s the hinge.

And the lever?

It’s your hand moving

when your head says don’t bother.

It’s typing through the static,

scraping at one dead paragraph

until it bleeds something half-honest.

Knowing no one’s watching.

Knowing it changes nothing.

But doing it clean.

You thought belief made you a writer.

But belief fades.

It always does.

What matters is

who shows up

when it’s gone.

That’s who writes the book.

-

Hemingway called his work shit. Celeste Ng rewrote whole books. David Foster Wallace drowned in doubt. Every writer you admire thought they weren’t good enough. Hell, they still think that.

They wrote anyway.