I would write, were it not for the novel in my hands… or shall I reverse the analogy?

I currently have three books open, waiting for my complete attention.  We’ll not discuss my computer which requires more repairs than did my ‘64 Dodge pickup, or my dog who most likely wishes it had opposable thumbs merely to make an adequate fist with which to strike me when I neglect her.

Time.

They have written songs about her.

They have written sonnets about her.

They have honored her with an entire magazine… full of… writing.

Why then do I find it so difficult to do the same?

I believe part of the problem is that I am a reader by nature.

We cannot confuse writing with reading.  One is a must.  One is a means of living… a means of breathing, lest that last breath echo from your lungs and draw with it everlasting words.

That is writing.  It is not a choice, but a birthright.