Today is a 55-word story and a weird essay-type piece about writing.
I sit in the waiting room with a cup of coffee and a gift shop paperback. I drift through a paragraph, the words going in one eye and out the other. So I read it again. Amy should wake up soon. I hope by then I’ll know a good way to tell her she miscarried.
Why Do I Write?
I write because I’m human. I think words matter. As it was in Eden, when Adam and Lilith argued over the definition of ‘is’.
I write because nobody cares. Even the Good Samaritan crosses over to the other side of the road. Now he’s pretending to take a call on his cell phone. What a tool.
I write because I lost my best creations. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, screaming ‘The dingo took my babies!' I know I’ll never get them back, so I keep popping out new ones.
I write because somewhere there is censorship. The rebellious ones fill pages with their defiance, smuggling them out in coffins and guitars.
I write because I can’t draw or paint. The museum docents broke my fingers for my obscene use of turquoise.
I write because better writers have sold out. They linger in the midnight shadows on Eighth Avenue, flaunting their fish-netted chapters.
I write because I went to bed with a metaphor and woke up like a simile.
I write because I can kill a man with my words. Sentence him to death, one might say.
I write because I slid my pen between her thighs and she smiled.
I write because I enjoy a double entendre in the morning.
I write because sometimes a warm pen is the best substitute for a warm body.
I write because notebooks are cheaper than therapy.
I write because I’m more evolved than the apes. Supposedly.