My friend says that she loves my writing. Today, she told me that I am a good writer, but that she doesn’t have time to read anything that I write. Ok.
So, why do I write? I have been writing every day almost since I was six. I have to do this because if I don’t, I feel sick and can’t seem to think straight. It’s therapy.
Then, there’s the matter of payment. You know those absurdities called paychecks that tend to help you get things like food and clothing. If I don’t write, I might get some food, but it sure won’t be the stuff that I like. Plus, I haven’t found a place where cat food is free. My cat has expensive tastes.
Plus, there is magic in the act of creating something beautiful. I once wrote a manifesto for better living that kept me alive. I once wrote a play about the art of flamenco dancing only to see my nieces learn and master the dance, tapping and sailing their way about the stage. There was more drama there than in a Tennessee Williams play. I read the poetry and prose of others and it helps me to live, to speak.
My friend says that she writes, but has no time to read. Well, I like to do both. My first rhetoric class taught us to listen first. Others arrived at the party before we did. I can’t formulate a response to a question that I didn’t hear.