The contents of the long, dark teacup of my soul

I am not a writer.

I know this because I have been assured that what makes a writer is, writers write.

Writers write.

I post pictures, and poems by people no-one has ever heard of, and things I wrote years ago, to avoid writing. Writers write.

Writers write even when no-one reads the words. A real writer would write words that would live their lives in a drawer, never seen by anyone else.

A real writer would write in the sand, never despairing of the tide coming for the words.

Writers write.

A real writer can withstand any criticism.
A real writer develops a thick skin and feels no pain.
A real writer can endure the harshest edit.


I went to the library yesterday and there was an authors' fair: writers clumped together in a small meeting room with shiny displays of their books and bowls of candy to entice the unwary, the potential readers, depressed girls like me.

I was given a sheet to get stamped. A fully-stamped sheet would win me the opportunity to win a prize I don't remember.

Everyone was smiling, everyone was welcoming, everyone was enthusiastic. When asked, I told people my favorite kind of book is mysteries. I listened to what their books are about and feigned enthusiasm. I got my sheet stamped. I was given bookmarks and business cards and at one table, a small red bag with a bookmark and business card and small disposable package of kleenex.

I took a piece of chocolate. Hershey's Special Dark.

I made it halfway around the room, then I pretended to get a phone call. I had a heated imaginary conversation with my mother about where I was and when I would be home. I walked out of the small room, preoccupied with my imaginary difficult mother.

I escaped.

I sat in the car and read about Shirley Jackson and thought about how if I had to do this to sell a book, I would kill myself.

Which is all right, because I am not a real writer.