Why I’m a Writer – ??

Excerpts from three recent conversations, and my, aren’t they revealing:

* * *

Mom, gazing at me with something like amazement: You write so much on your blog.

Me: Oh, am I overwriting?

Mom: Nothing like that; it’s just that you always have so much to say. (Subtext: Yet nothing to say for yourself otherwise, especially when I call you.)

* * *

Friend R-, who knows me all too well: So, how are you, anyhow?

Me: Yesterday, I wasn’t doing so well — oh wait, I wrote about that on my blog — never mind; you can read about it there.

Friend R-: Gives me all kinds of good-natured s**t, ending with something along the lines of:
…and now you’re going to process and talk to yourself through your blog instead of engage in actual conversations with people?

* * *

Writer-friend after a few drinks: Why aren’t you married, anyhow? You’re pretty…

Me, wondering what “pretty” has to do with it: Uhm, because I have trouble relating?

Writer-friend: THAT’s why you write.

* * *

All this reminds me of my actress-friend from the play last week. She got hammered afterwards, and I drove her home to her peeved husband. She said to me, “You get to go home, pet your cat, and dive into bed with a novel. I have to go home and EXPRESS MYSELF.”

This from an actress, an extroverted person. Imagine me, laughing my arse off yet secretly relieved that I didn’t have to express myself verbally or relate to real people anymore for that evening.