So shall it be written

I have a lot of friends who are writers.

Real writers.

Writers of TV shows, like Bryan Behar, Erik Moe and Charlie Tercek.

Writers of books, like Kathy Hepinstall, Rohitash Ro and Toby Barlow, to name a few.

Writers of TV shows, books and movies, like my old partners Jim Jennewein and Tom Parker.

And copywriters of ads and blogs who wish they were writing TV shows, books and movies, you lazy asses know who you are.

I count myself among that later group who have never really written anything of substance.

Nevertheless, I keep clicking and clacking on the keyboard, because at the very least I consider myself someone who pays attention to the world. And these days, when the leader of the free world is nothing but a lumpen, empty-headed douchebiscuit, you'd be a fool not to.

But the other reason I write is because I enjoy it.

Like swimming, it is therapeutic. There's a rhythm to it. It may take a while, or a pot of coffee, or even half a Vicoden, but at some  point you can actually feel yourself getting into a Zone. It's as if my fingertips have a mind of their own. Thoughts become words. Words become sentences. Sentences become paragraphs. And wrap up lines flow like a raging river. Not on this particular piece, mind you, but it does happen.

My friend Jim, who now teaches at Fordham University, often quotes famous authors. I forgot who said it but one always resonated, he or she said,

"When I am writing, there is nothing else I'd rather be doing."

This I know to be true.

And I'm fortunate enough to be married to a woman who understands this and looks the other way when I lock myself in my room and write.

There's also the matter of self-pleasure. Slow your roll. As Sharon O'Brien puts it,

"Writing became a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get up in the morning; I wanted to know what I was going to say."

This is also true.

As my family will attest, if I happen to write something funny no one enjoys it more than I do. Pathetic, isn't it?

Finally, there's the flip side of it all. What if, I ask myself, I had become a lawyer, or worse, a CPA? What if I hadn't found an outlet for my inner snarky narcissist? I think Kafka put it best.

"A non-writing writer is courting insanity."