Why Indeed?


Why am I here?
Why do I let myself get sucked into strange and quixotic ventures on little more than an email invitation?
Is free coffee and tasty cookies reason enough?
Is it because I have asked more than my fair share of friends, friends of friends, and people I admire from afar on the Internet to write for me, for free?
Why did those people say yes?
Was it the parties?
Was it a vacation from other more pressing work that actually pays the bills?
Is being easy just my way of paying off that karmic debt?
Is it worth making payments on a debt that can never be cleared in full?
Speaking of money, has anyone here cracked the code on making money on writing?
How many people here are real writers?
What makes a person a real writer?
How many terrible things does a person need to write before they write well enough to win a Nebula award? Or any award?
Does anyone else here have difficulty just finishing books?
Does anyone else here have difficulty just starting writing?
Is this the future of writing?
Is the future of writing a series of favors, paid forward, with fun parties and nice snacks, or is there something more here?
Does there need to be anything more?

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