Telling the interviewer about the fear that drives her, she holds up an empty calendar.

“If my book ever looked like this, it would mean that nobody wants me, that everything I ever tried to do in life didn’t work. Nobody cared and I’ve been totally forgotten.”
Here is someone who thinks she is nothing and doesn’t matter if she isn’t doing something for even a few days.

It’s one of the saddest things a person has ever said without realizing it.

Indeed, that’s the mistake the ceaselessly busy make.
They think they are better for the frenzy, in fact, it’s the moments of stillness that afford them the ability to be so busy.
Stillness was where Joan Rivers did her best writing—no one can write without quiet and reflection.
Stillness, ironically, is how Odysseus waited out six-headed monsters and ship-swallowing storms.

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There is no greatness that is not at peace, Seneca reminds us. There is no greatness if we cannot be. We must take the odyssey within.

We must be still.

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