Attempting a writing life creates lunacy. It isn’t easy parsing through millions of thoughts with a net that only holds a hundred or so at a time. It’s like fishing for plankton with a net suited for landing giant catfish. But what the hell, I keep at it, which is the lunacy and irrationality of the writer. I’ve been told that I would be so much happier if I stopped thinking and writing so much. But I can’t stop.
This thing called a writing life is a bad habit. Every morning, I write when the sun rises. But on days when I’m writing-constipated, I get so grumpy that no one wants to be around me all day. When I can’t write, I turn into Archie Bunker and complain about everything and everyone in a Brooklyn accent. It sucks. But I can’t quit the writing life. Heck, I don’t even want to quit. Writing transports me – in my own parlance: I am a compulsive writer. Maybe I should start a “writers anonymous” group. “Hi,” I’d say at the start of my testimony. “My name is Juan and I am a damned writer.”
The group would chorus back to me, “Hi Juan! But just to let you know, there’s no other kind of writer but the damned kind.”
The problem, if there’s one, is that I write because I have no other choice. Down the road, when I’m sitting in my rocking chair wondering if the grandkids will ever visit me, I’m certain that if I can still hold a stupid pen, I’ll write a poem or a verse about how much old age sucks. I’m certain that I’ll still be fishing for plankton in my mind, even if I’m senile, I’ll be grasping at some great collection of words that I won’t fully capture.
Or maybe I won’t. Maybe my Writer’s Anonymous group will cure of the writing life. I don’t drink or drug. Don’t gamble much. Writing is my only vice. I wonder if my writing glass will ever be down to 2 drops. On second thought, no I don’t. My name is Juan and I am a damned writer.
