Writing as an Ecstasy and an Agony

Writing about writing is almost inescapably boring. But I think the way to make it work is by diving right in. Headfirst, over the edge.

So let’s start with the first question in my crowded mind: why is it that both agony and ecstasy feel like they belong to the young? Do they reek of angst, of doomed romanticism, of immaturity? But are they not the very heights of human emotion? I am not so young anymore, but I think I understand agony and ecstasy better than ever.