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His talent is not, he insists, originality of plot, going so far as to say his plots "could be found on an episode of 'CSI' or 'Law & Order.' " He's merely happy to take credit for doing what he does very well, which is to write meaty, morally ambiguous, thought-provoking crime novels centered in the seamiest parts of Boston.
No, his explanation for his success is simpler: Pure luck. "I am just the luckiest guy on the planet," he says. (If you suspect he used a more colorful word than "guy," you're right.) "Because I'm Irish, I keep looking at the sky, waiting for it to fall."
I wonder if anxiety around writing is the same as anxiety about everything else, and just as un-useful? If it is an over-awareness of an imaginary audience, a kind of stage fright brought on by the assumption that making things up and writing them down is an important thing to do? So what if it isn't good, or no-one reads it? When it becomes important, for me, it gets stuck. When it is playing and I am only pleasing myself, this thing called 'flow' happens and I am more calm and content than I am when I am doing anything else. The inner critic whispers justifiably over things like punctutation and spelling, but because I can fix these things when I can be bothered, she is easily ignored.