Writing as a life — not a project or an ambition but a daily practice of attention — asks something that other vocations rarely do: that you sit with language until it becomes honest, and that you do this again tomorrow and the day after, regardless of outcome. The writing life is ordinary in its rhythms and strange in what it requires, which is a self willing to be changed by its own sentences. Many begin it; fewer discover what it truly asks.
Each step builds on the last.