“How do you write?”
the moderator
asks.
“Oh! With a
typewriter!”
says she.
Her fingernails clack
on the burnished
tray which
holds
our waters
and she laughs
a
lilting
laugh
along with
the audience.
Her breasts
are smothered
beneath her
burgundy
blazer–
after all
she is more than
simply
a woman;
she is an Artíst.
“It makes me feel
closer
to Hemingway,”
she says.
There it is:
the pretty bow
that constitutes
a writer.
An audience
will fall in love
with wit
like that.
I get my
proximety
to Hemingway
through a bottle of
Vermouth under the
bed
and one of
Rum next to
the cat’s dish.
“And how about you,
sir.
How do you write?”
I swallow hard
against the
implication.
“Different ways,”
I say.
“Whatever is handy
when
the heat
comes.
I’ve written on
grocery lists,
in book margins,
on pamphlets,
church programs,
music scores,
receipts for
cat food,
anything, really.
But I usually write using
my laptop…
or, if I can’t
get to it, then I’ll
use
my phone.
“A phone?”
she says.
“My goodness, what has
our craft
come
to?”
The audience laughs.
I’ve forgotten
how that goes.
I wish I’d told
the truth.
But people can never
forgive you
once you
tell them
the truth.
If I had
shown
more courage,
I would have said:
When that storm
.flashes. and
breaks on me
with its
silent thunder,
the only
implement
common
to all the
writing
I’ve ever
done
is
a chronic
desperation.
Great imagery!
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