“To write is to judge.
   To write is to fume and to pine, to hanker and to despise.
   To write is to hope.
   To write is to dwell in contradiction: to be all-powerful within the text, and utterly helpless without. Nothing is so egotistical and frail as the written word. To dictate meaning to another soul. To remain pinned to the page, motionless, while the thoughts you would tether run cruel, cruel circles.
   To write is to seize another’s hands with your throat.
   To write is to be a forgotten Son of God, more abject than divine. To write is to be the saviour of those who do not even care to crucify you.
   To write is to be confronted with your own infancy, to find yourself stranded at your beginning, again and again and again. Either you are a witness to your irrelevance–because the words come when they come–or you stand stuttering, shouldering the indeterminate future.
   To write is to continually speak into the absence of having anything to say. The beautiful babble.
   To write is to be soundless.
   To write is to offer yourself up as tinder so that others might burn.
   To write is to be a cynic, laughing at the meek, crying for the bold. To write is to be earnest, to chisel verities into the stone of history–to be a Sayer of What Has Been Said.
   To write is to make a parade of your thoughts, a carnival of your bigotries. Ink is your garish cosmetic. Images are your stunts. To write is to explain the aphonia of clowns.
   To write is to take yourself way too seriously. You rehearse and revise, rehearse and revise, until you begin thinking in catechisms, speaking in parables. Until your friends begin to fear you…
   Second guess the stories you pretend to tell.”

— R. Scott Bakker
from his “Three Pound Brain” blog