A History of Writing, by Jack (age 39½)

It’s a street fight.

You’re in a pool of sodium lamplight, standing at the well-worn corner of Aspiration and Desperation, rolling up your sleeves and brandishing your fists. Then the lights go out, and you’re throwing punches in the dark, deaf in the roar of a crowd that only exists in your head.

Your opponent—he’s real. Bigger than you, too; if you’re any kind of writer, you’re always fighting above your weight. But he’s real enough, for all that you can’t see him—and worse, you’re not sure if he can see you.

But the purse—that’s real, too. Realest of all. And so you keep swinging.