I Write David Sauvage

Like I said, I'm inept. I don't tie my shoelaces. I don't understand seat belts. I can't change tires. I can't cook or fish or dance or sing or act or lie. I don't see how a plane can stay in the air or how it can land. I don't know how to paint or sculpt, and I can't take pictures unless the camera beeps. I'm about as practical as a socialist and as self-absorbed as, well, a writer.

I am a writer.

That means I sit alone for hours on end, eyes bloodshot with red coffee stains. It means I run my hand through my hair intellectually, fawning over the character I've just created. Pretty soon, there's sweat on my forehead (brow, if you prefer) and then on my fingers, then the keys. I rub my hands against my shorts. I push the chair back. I clap. I whisper an obscenity because I know I can get away with it. My eyes close. I think. I realize that the story must turn a certain way. Or I understand that the word "antisocial" is clearer than "misanthropic." I see something I hadn't seen before. My fingers twitch, and then it's there in front of me.I've written a story about a character who feels the need to bite his own thumb. I feel so enthusiastic about this...