“So, you never did become a writer. Why not?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time. Tell me about your failed attempts and missed opportunities.”
“Would you like to browse through my journals? I’ve been keeping them, off and on, for fifty years. Think of Samuel Pepys or Anais Nin. Maybe I’m not approaching this in the right way.”
“Hmm…Looks like fifty years of mindless drivel.”
“I have some poems.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Look. It’s not too late for me. Think of Grandma Moses…”
“You’re going to take up painting?”
“No. Late bloomers. Frank McCourt. What about Frank McCourt?”
“Are you Irish?”
“No.”
“Do you have vivid recollections of an impoverished childhood?”
“No.”
“Do you have stories?”
“Of course I have stories, and ideas, and metaphors. Especially metaphors about not writing. I have pens. Do you want to see my pens?”
“No.”
“And yellow pads. Love ‘em. Of course I switched from manual to Selectric to IMac and IPad…”
“That’s enough. I have to go. I have to interview a famous non-singer about all the songs not sung, and then there’s this guy who has an unexamined life…”
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