/lit/ - Literature

I'm coming here just to ask this because I'm not an english native speaker and have no better place than /lit/, but here is a serious fucking question: how does one abandon his past lifestyle to embrace a writer's one? What it has to be sacrificed?

I'm trying to follow a schedule, but to be honest, I can't bear it. I feel alone, I have no one to talk with, and when all you do is write and read, slowly I come to realize how sad being a writer is. Do you guys also go through this? Is this loneliness normal and I just have to deal with it?

>tfw can't read more than 10 pages in one day without giving in to the desire to just watch anime and play video games instead

how do I fix myself /lit/?

how to know if i'm stupid? serious question

>tfw this will never be adapted to film by the Coen Bros

>>3378812
"He had to stop the fear that made him want to yell and holler and laugh and claw himself to death with a pair of hands that were rotting in some hospital dump. He had to get hold of himself so he could think. This had been going on for too long. His stumps were healed over now. The bandages were gone. That meant time had passed. A lot of time. Enough time so that he had to come out of it and think. He had to think of himself of Joe Bonham and what he was going to do next. He had to figure things out all over again. It was like a full grown man suddenly being stuffed back into his mother's body. He was lying in stillness. He was completely helpless. Somewhere sticking in his stomach was a tube they fed him through. That was exactly like the womb except a baby in its mother's body could look forward to the time when it would live. He would be in this womb forever and ever and ever. He must remember that. He must never expect or hope different. This was his life from now on every day and every hour and every minute of it. He would never again be able to say hello how are you I love you. He would never again be able to hear music or the whisper of the wind or the chuckle of running water. He never again breathe in the smell of steak frying in his mother's kitchen or the dampness of spring in the air or the wonderful fragrance of sagebrush carried on the wind across a wide open plain. He never again be able to see the faces of people who made you glad just to look at them, of people like Karen. He would never again be able to see sunlight or the stars or the little grasses that grow on Colorado hillsides. He would never again walk with his legs on the ground. He would never run or jump or stretch out when he was tired. He would never be tired. If the place where he lay were burning he would simply stay there and let it burn. He would burn up with it and not be able to make a move."