the work is whats important, really, and i would feel bereft if some benign but misguided god were to gift the works to me ready-made

its a continuing game for me, a couple years ago after a couple glasses of wine id run up to my writer friends asking them the exact same question,

if a hypothetical God were to approach u with a mysterious box inside which there’d ur ultimate magnum opus, would u be willing to receive it? the catch would be, u dont know which form it took (consider urself being a writer now and becoming a filmmaker later, although, ure working with the same pain, within the same life). and it is a painful thing, although a beautiful challenge. 

that was the question and at the time i thought the work and the making is what i want to focus on, and i will do it the only way i know, by talking personally.

although it wasnt convincing enough for me, turns out. i still catch myself wondering about a possibility of my googledoc filling itself up into a perfect essay, and following that thought i feel shame.

so u dont really like writing, after all? u just like the prize, 

and as samuel beckett put it best when asked why do u write; bon qu’a ça 

“it is the only thing im good at”