Long ago and far away, when I was young and foolish – like last week – I had this image of what A Writer was or is. A “writer” is someone who keeps weird hours, drinks bad coffee, roams their own reality, swings from euphoria to depression at the drop of a hat, and smokes Maduros like a chimney. A writer is reclusive, creative, eccentric. Elusive. Can stand almost anything except being interrupted when on the cusp of a brilliant stroke of genius. Every five minutes. Has a spouse who understands that when I’m looking at the window, I am ‘working.’
Guess I better work on that Maduro thing.
What does “writer” mean to you?