Another Post About Writing

Why shouldn’t I be a writer? They get the coolest tools and utensils — fountain pens, leather bound journals, heavy-weight papers, laptop computers, stained/seasoned coffee mugs, alcohol and nicotine addictions. There is such an aura of literati intelligence surrounding a writer, I’m envious.

Why can’t I be a writer? I think I must be far too uptight to let all the good stuff out. Aren’t the best stories the ones about the deepest, darkest bad side inside us all. Because writing is so cathartic, then to get at all that soul gold I must be able to dig it up and, in my current stuck-up state, that’s just not happening. Maybe I could take some improv acting lessons to help me learn to get to the juicy heart of things at a moment’s notice. I’ve seen those guys. The stuff they come up with at the drop of a hat is absolutely incredible.

What if I were a writer? I would have to give up my cushy, decadent lifestyle. No more eating out five times a week. No more hundred-dollar spending sprees for no reason. No more oil changes for the car (ok, maybe not that extreme). But, certainly, no more flying out of town for an overnight trip to see +LiVE+ play in some random East Coast city. That would be a bummer. I’ve come to enjoy my jet-setting groupie ways. And the awe and admiration that radiates from someone when you tell them what you did last weekend; that’s the BEST. Well, if I were a writer, that would be no more.

How do I know if I’m a writer? I’ve been told the only way to define yourself as a writer, is to WRITE. Produce, produce, produce. Always be writing. Always be drafting new stories or fish-tales or humongous lies.

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