“How does it feel to be a writer?”
I smile and take a sip of my orange Tanqueray
“I don’t know…how does it feel to be human?”
The room laughs
The flashbulbs explode
But it was not a Coward style quip
It was a genuine question.
Every second of my life
Words flash through my flaming mind
There’s no silence
When it’s good, it is great
A poem from out of the air
People admiring my prose.
When it’s bad
It is sleepless nights
It’s a feeling of eternal sinking
Never being good enough
Never being talented enough.
It’s a brand new blade to the wrist
Just to be able to breathe
Just to be able to function.
I keep this all in, of course
My veteran guard is always up.
“Being a writer is fine!”
I answer wackily
Before dropping my drink
And leaving the stressful party
A party I could never feel comfortable at
When I could never feel comfortable in life.