“Can I ask you a question?”
Light hair, thin hunched shoulders and big round eyes. She and her boyfriend had been having tense small talk all night. Something about her made me think of a rabbit.
“Are you a writer?”
I nodded. Smiled.
“Is that something you went to school for or, studied…to learn?”
“I think I’ve always been writing things. Sometimes I believe writing’s a compulsion. Whether it’s something you want to do, it’s something you have to do. And so you try to shape your life the best way you can around it, even try to do something productive with it.”
She told me she’d just read Stephen King’s autobiography, and that he’d basically wrote so much until someone finally noticed. But he wrote like he had to get it out whether or not people were there to read it.
“Writers are the most haunted people on earth, ” I told her. “They see these other worlds, they hear their voices. They carry the burden of expression, to release all that’s inside. But whether they’re haunted by demons or angels, the writer has to decide.”
Her eyes were like moons forming question marks, her face seemed to gravitate . She looked on the verge of falling into me.