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Friday, Mar. 04, 2005
A few sessions ago my pal Batten wrote something to the effect that writing was . . . wait one, let me get a free quote from her, ďI write because I have to.Ē In the context that this isnít something done for applause or the gratification of others.

In the dark time, from the point of my departure from an abbreviated college stint until 2001, I didnít write. That's like 20 years if you're counting. Oh maybe some darkly crafted business letters, birthday card notes. Little stuff.

Being online eventually will make you write. I sent an e-mail to a local band after seeing them perform live, a longish sort of glowing review that must have struck the female singer in some positive fashion, and she basically told me if I didnít start writing again she wouldnít sing anymore.

Or something along those lines. It might have been just an encouraging grunt. Iíve never been one to interpret very accurately. Point is, it put the germ back in my head. There are times I wish she hadnít ever done that.

Because it really is true. I write because I have to.

I was writing the other night, sitting here in the holy recliner while Ally watched TV next to me. Tapping keys and oblivious. And she rose from her chair with a sigh, clicked off the set and began to walk out of the room with a slow stride. ďGoing to bed, see ya.Ē It was abrupt enough to stir me from the fog.

ďWhatís up, honey? Are you all right?Ē

ďWhy are you up at this hour typing on the laptop,Ē she asked quietly.

ďIím writing a story, wanna read it?Ē Iím forever willing to share, see.

ďNo, I donít. It just gets to me when you fall into that world of yours, that writing world. Itís something you do and I know that but itís just a place I canít go to, youíve got a world out there that Iím not a part of at all.Ē

I didnít have any happy words for her, I apologized for putting her out there without a lifeline. Reading, writing, it makes no difference. Iím an aloof and silent bastard when words start flittering around. I know this and donít know what to do about it. I know I donít want to drive my wife nearly to tears over it.

Thereís also last night, same room and same chairs, sans laptop. I was reclined here after one of the more awful days Iíve had recently and thinking to myself, ďI wish nothing more right now, right this second than for Ally to come over here and sit in this chair with me for a minute.Ē

And thatís exactly what she did.

I donít know how she knew. Itís not something we do very often at all, sharing a chair. If she read my mind she did a very thorough job of it. And it makes me wonder.

Maybe sheís not quite so far away from my world as she thinks. It's a mystic and swirling sort of place sometimes.

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