This is the most… beautiful? existentialist? and therefore beautiful? thing I’ve seen about creating art in recent memory. (Thanks to my boyfriend, who pointed it out to me.)
It’s a nice reminder what the more abstract purpose is, when I’m busy being frustrated at perfectly normal annoyances in the life of a writer. It’s good for my fragile little writer ego that I get pulled out of the minutia to look at the stars once in a while, and maybe it is for yours too.