May 2nd, 2017

I don’t know why I write. I can talk about needs and drives and magic and book store groupies (actually I just made that one up, although maybe there are hot, sexy women who hang out at bookstores for famous author signing; feck, who am I kidding?), but in the end I don’t have a good reason for doing what I do. I suppose we all have to do something and writing is just the card I drew. Kurt Vonnegut expressed the thought this way:

Let him talk to Darwinists, hat in hand. It’s educational, and pays off in the end. As Colonel Littauer said to me one time when I was bitter about being broke: “Who asked you to be a writer in the first place?” —to Knox Burger on 8 January 1973, p. 194 Kurt Vonnegut: Letters.

So I get what Vonnegut was saying. Writer’s who bitch about what they do should just get a day job. The world won’t miss our words. Ever.

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