But there is hope, there must be hope, in writing, for those of us who failed as students.


Perhaps we failed because of an abundance of our own words needing to get out of our brains.

"What if excess of love... enchanted them to a stone," Yeats wrote, of the Irish patriots of 1916.

An Emily Dickinson kind of rebellion, once a point was reached.  Hey, I can do this on my own.
Though it's always foolish for a writer not to read, finding reflections in the lights of others.

Writing is such a queer thing anyway.   How would you make a job of it anyway...

Sorrows will follow you, wherever you go.  Fodder for meditation.  Leads you to Buddha and meditation as a way to save.

Well, at least you have identified one of the major problems, the main professional issue...