An admission

144 words

I’ve often avoided admitting how much I love to write to other writers. Like being a teacher’s pet, there’s something shamefully eager about loving it, but I do.

Many writers claim to hate writing; such a writer will say she hates writing before tossing a red feather boa around her neck and dragging deeply on a cigarette. They are so seductive, these writing-averse writers. I am not one of them.

Maybe the reason I like writing is that I write best after I’ve been alone for a little while. Alone in this context means “being calmly impervious to any and all intrusions.” Alone means I am not checking my email, nor reading the Internet, nor socializing on media or in person. If I am writing it means I am this kind of alone. If I’m writing, I am a dog in her thunder shirt.