by Charles Bukowski

    if it doesn't come bursting out of you

    in spite of everything，

    don't do it.

    unless it comes unasked out of your

    heart and your mind and your mouth

    and your gut¹，

    don't do it.

    if you have to sit for hours

    staring at your computer screen

    or hunched² over your

    typewriter

    searching for words，

    don't do it.

    if you're doing it for money or

    fame，

    don't do it.

    if you're doing it because you want

    women in your bed，

    don't do it.

    if you have to sit there and

    rewrite it again and again，

    don't do it.

    if it's hard work just thinking about doing it，

    don't do it.

    if you're trying to write like somebody

    else，

    forget about it.

    if you have to wait for it to roar out of

    you，

    then wait patiently.

    if it never does roar out of you，

    do something else.

    if you first have to read it to your wife

    or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

    or your parents or to anybody at all，

    you're not ready.

    don't be like so many writers，

    don't be like so many thousands of

    people who call themselves writers，

    don't be dull and boring and

    pretentious³， don't be consumed with self-

    love.

    the libraries of the world have

    yawned themselves to

    sleep

    over your kind.

    don't add to that.

    don't do it.

    unless it comes out of

    your soul like a rocket，

    unless being still would

    drive you to madness or

    suicide or murder，

    don't do it.

    unless the sun inside you is

    burning your gut，

    don't do it.

    when it is truly time，

    and if you have been chosen，

    it will do it by

    itself and it will keep on doing it

    until you die or it dies in you.

    there is no other way.

    and there never was.

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