The Act of Writing

“It’s like being punched right in the damn face.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“That’s kinda what it feels like. It stings a bit.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m trying to explain it to you. The act of writing it down… here on this page… it’s kinda like that… Did you think it was an easy task or something? You probably still think it’s some sort of a fun game, don’t you? — being a writer.”

“You are not making ANY sense. What’s not easy?”

“Writing it down for you. It’s like, having someone punch me right in the face, and I’m drawing blood. And I’m trying to keep my head up — but the blood is dripping from the cut on my brow. And it's running down, from my shiny nose, too. And, now there’s a pool of blood… it’s bright red… staining this very page, here. And I lost a lot of blood, and I’m feeling faint, and turning a bit pale. I’m seeing some shades of grey, and my three acts are up. You don’t always get a fourth and fifth act, you know? I read that once. And, so, I’m losing it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just making ‘conversation’ with you! Why do you even do it, then? Why bother writing at all!”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Don’t you see? Every nuance of everything has to be … explained. Rather than having you, or them, swiftly go from ‘s’ straight to ‘y’ I have to stop at, w, t and l, along the way — so you can catch up. It’s not always this exhausting. It's hardly rocket science. Some folks, only draw a little blood, they're like mosquitos. They might leave you the hell alone after they poke you. They know better. I might swat them if they try to cling like a leech. But, just imagine I have a nation full of basket cases to explain shit to. That’s a lot of bloodletting, don’t you think? It’s not so much an act of ‘wringing’ the words out anymore. The lifeblood just isn't there anymore, it's lost on the page. It feels more like a punch ... square in the nose. Do you get it now? Do I need to go over anything, again?”

“You masochistic egoist.”

“Fine. I’ll take it. Anything else?

“How about a misogynist!”

“That’s a bloody stretch, but go ahead, and left hook. While you're at it try an uppercut. Aim for my jaw. A masochistic misogynistic — egoist! Great! A tongue twister! I kinda like that. There’s a certain ring to it, and I feel the elation — the good vibrations! Damn, I might go and sing that one in the shower tonight.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch!”

“Very well. I’m taking the silk sheets. And the down blanket.”

“No, no you bloody hell aren’t.”

“Yes, I bloody hell am!”

“Hey! Just where do you think you're going?”

“I’m leaving, to cool down. I’m taking a walk outdoors before I blow my lid.”

“No, don’t leave. I’m talking to you and we’re having a ‘conversation’.”


“We’re not talking at all, I’m getting punched in the face here, and there's no referee. I’m tapping out.”

“Like hell you are. If you open that door, you’re moving the hell out!”

"Look, I just need a break. But this is, precisely, why we do it. This is why we 'disappear,' never to be heard from again. This is why we don't bother to answer our phones anymore. This is why we bing, until we don't feel the sting of the sucker punch no more. Don't worry, maybe in time, I'll be back ... so you can punch me in the face again."