Every Sunday, I choose a passage of wisdom from someone who knows better and much more than I do about writing, life, the universe and/or everything.
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Motley is one of those people who seem to have something for every crack in my soul. I’ve noticed lately just how raw I am feeling after a week of total literary abandon, and it seems like March isn’t being kind to many of those I know, so here is some balm for the weary. Because part of why we write is to be loved and understood for ourselves, however unideal that self may be.
One must get rid of the idea that educated and intelligent test persons are able to see and admit their own complexes. Every human mind contains much that is unacknowledged and hence unconscious as such; and no one can boast that he stands completely above his complexes.
Every human mind believes that it knows everything that is important to know about itself. Here’s the secret: we’re wrong.
That thing? You know, that thing you think that you’ve successfully distanced yourself from, that you’ve decided not to become, that you’ve worked so hard not to be, that you’ve spent years or decades denying and reviling and excising from yourself?
That’s not a secret to anybody but you. Everyone else already knows. They see it in you every day. You are the only one who doesn’t realize that it is a part of who you are.
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