Every time I realize I’ve started to write a new book I feel like a grown up watching a little kid pretending to be a movie star. I start typing feverishly and then I stop and remind myself that only real writers write books and that I’m a very silly person in pajamas, who, after several hours at the computer, finds herself laying on the floor singing to the dog and then staring at the ceiling. There’s not so much as an ounce of pain involved. There should be pain. Real pain. Real writers smoke, they drink black coffee, they hang out with other depressed writers and they have jobs. They have apartments in the city, they have writing groups and bar hang outs and they can communicate with their subconscious. They have a million and one things to distract themselves from the loneliness and the suffering. All I have is Guitar Hero.