In my quiet world, there’s no excitement for the release of my books. It hurts. I’ve known for a long time that some things really were never meant to be, but the indifference to my writing is the final pebble that brought the entire endeavour down from even hopeful romanticism.
Now it is what it is. Not that that’s how the situation had to go. Perhaps some have difficulty getting used to the fact there’s a whole world in your head that doesn’t necessarily include them. Writers should have rich inner worlds—if they mirrored reality, well . . . that’d just be dull.