Is It About Me?
“I write,” I confessed.
“Is it about me?” she asked.
“It’s about many things. Everything and nothing. A bunch of shit.”
“But what about me?”
“But what about the writing?” I asked.
“No. What about me?” she insisted.
“Yes. Naturally. It concludes it would include you as a part of everything.”
“No,” she insisted. “Is it about me in particular?”
Again I confessed, “Sometimes.”
“A little or a lot?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. Very much,” she said.
“How?” I asked.
“Does it make me look good or bad?” she asked.
“What if it’s good?”
“Then your writing must be good. And I encourage you to write more. I’d even like to read it myself.”
“What if I write about you negatively?”
“Then it’s all shit. And you should stop. In this case, your writing is pointless and senseless and amateurish. And you don’t deserve an audience for being so cruel.”
“It’s all shit. Even the stories and poems that aren’t about you?”
“Yes. It must be. It concludes naturally, as you’re so fond of saying. Probably even writing.”
mrobins71 