The wretched writer.

It is always easier to read than to write a book; to play than to develop a game. These are the easier things to do no doubt, but these things are not mine. In the end, after reading a good book, say, 'The Myth of Sisyphus', those ideas still belong to Camus. What then are my ideas? What is my story?

Why do I even want to write the story? Does it matter whether it gets told? What do I want out of it?

It doesn't matter—nothing does. So why bother? Why why why? Indeed, why bother about anything at all. The sound and the fury. Much ado about nothing. It probably means nothing at all.

Then I filled another page-and-a-half on his childhood, and wondered if I am not a wretch.