and she asks me, ‘do you write?’
well, yes, ma’am, actually i do. i write a lot. i love it.
what do you write, she says.
lots of things, i say. poetry, short stories, fantasy, sci-fi, mystery, horror, tragedy…
oh, she says. so you’re not a real writer.
you’re not a real writer. you don’t have books published and stuff.
i’ve written six books…
but they’re not published, right? i can’t go to Chapters and buy one.
well, no, but i’m hoping one day…
oh, of course, sweetie. sure thing.
she pinches my cheek.
we all have dreams, don’t we? all you kids are so cute when you’re young!
i watch her walk away.
but i am a real writer! i write from my heart. i write truths. and truths in fiction. do you know how hard that is?
and i write poetry! with metre! and rhyme! bet you can’t do that, with metre and rhyme.
i was born in the wrong century, that’s all! no one likes it if you write beautiful things. truthful things. soulful things.
…i write from the soul.
but they don’t want it. it doesn’t sell.
but i still write.
i write because i have to write.
must write! must write!
it’s like a mantra. some sort of drug.
i can’t stay away!
isn’t that a real writer? what else do you want from me? blood? tears?
…i already cry when i write…
i cry because i write.