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Pondering a Few of the Reasons That I (Still) Write
It’s not just because the voices tell me to
As I was drinking coffee at a café today with my new Saturday morning crew, one of them said something I’ve heard quite a few times since moving to Just South of Nowhere, Texas:
“I hear you’re a writer. Would I have read anything you wrote?”
My initial response to this question is one I never give:
“If you have to ask, then probably not.”
Instead, I mention my novel series and a few of the articles I’ve written here, knowing as I do that there is little chance they’ll even remember the book titles and virtually no chance they will ever visit my Medium page. I really need to stop being such an optimist; I should jump on the table, declare myself to be a writer, and insist they buy two copies of everything before finishing their toast.
Their response is fairly standard as well:
“I always wanted to write a book. Not much money in that, is there?”
No, no there isn’t, and thanks so much for reminding me. I wouldn’t have remembered until I had to pay for my coffee.
I left the café wondering something I wonder more often than I’d like to admit, especially knowing I had hours at a keyboard…
