A guide to all I’ve written so far!

See the sour faced Hemingway-wannabe with the black lungs, smoking a cigarette outside a coffee shop. "Writing isn't all it's cracked up," he says, phlegm in the pocket of his cheek. His shirt is stained with whiskey. He smells of peppermints that he uses to try to hide the smell of his breath. 

"All you young writers out there think being a writer is this amazing thing, but you have no idea what's in store for you. You have no idea."

He will tell you of nights spent scratching at his head until it bled. The nights he wished that he'd been a taxidermist or a dentist instead. How his wife left him in the black night and he chased her up and down the streets howling like a rabid dog. "Don't be a writer, kid," he'll say, "you don't want to end up like me."

Then he will act like he doesn't enjoy it. 

I want to laugh at all the Hemingway's of the world, nursing war wounds and bitter dregs. Because, yes, this is what I've been waiting for. I've been waiting to be imprisoned like Dostoevsky. I've been waiting for this moment when I can't get to that next paragraph and so begin to try amputating my owns limb off. I've been waiting for the broken laptop and the broken chapter. For dark nights in a back bedroom, unable to escape out of my head because I can't get the taste of bad words out.