Write on.

Everyone around me is writing. Writing their asses off. Writing off the tops of their heads. Writing from their souls. Writing as if their lives depended on it.

Everyone is writing but me. And I'm a writer. ("Goddamn right, you are," several of my more profane friends would exhort.) I'm the daughter of a writer, I work with writers, I am a friend to writers; I love writers. And I love writing. It's my life. Storytelling is ultimately what I'm all about. Ask anyone who knows me: the neighbors who have sheltered me on and off for the past two virtually homeless months while I prepare to move from the mountain above, to the core of, the city...the woman who keeps me even and sane as she and I keep each other from swirling too deep in a vortex of insanity...the man who makes fun of me when he asks me a simple question that requires a simple answer, and I respond with a novelette.

I was just reading a blog I like, written by a woman in LA named cjarabia whom I don't know, and she had written this about what she looks for in a guy: "A guy who likes to fuck me (well and often). A guy who communicates and can tell me how he's feeling, and when he wants to spend time with me and when he wants to be alone. I love guys who don't always let me have my way. Guys who expect more from me. Guys who love me even when I fuck up, cuz they know what's on the inside. Guys who try. Guys who ask questions. Guys who think their own thoughts even when they are totally different than mine."

Thank God she wrote that. Because I'm just not writing right now.