Manly Man was a highschool and college football hero. He majored in Business, dated the cheerleaders, and drank beers every Saturday night with the boys. Though he says he was friends with everyone, I catch him in his duplicity when he refers to the Art, Lit, and Journalism major crowd as "them, those artsy-fartsy types." I don't think he realises he's doing it. I don't think he knows just how alienated I am by this.

I am a writer. I didn't ask to be. I didn't go stand in queue at the local branch of Professions R Us and receive a gold stamp on my birth certificate or tattoo on my ass. Not one angel visited me to plant a damning kiss on my forehead after singing the mojo writer-type person mantra and dancing a semicircle round my bed. I am a writer. I just am.

I can't even really tell you why I write, except to say that it's all I've ever known and I can't stop. It would be so much easier were that I had that gold stamp or brand on my butt. Something, anything that I might point a finger at and say, "Here! You see? I was chosen. That's why!" But I don't have that neat little bit of tangible evidence for the court. Instead of pointing at some concrete proof of my destiny, I fumble an "I dunno, gee, but would you like to see my work?" I meekly offer a stack of file folders stuffed with manuscripts, articles, really awful poetry in the vain (both meanings) hope of settling it once and for all.

I've tried to stop! I truly have! I've shut down the computer, locked away my favourite pens and notebooks. Suffered through a thousand and three movies, all the while reminding myself that no, I couldn't have written the script better. I catch myself making little notes on paper napkins and the backs of envelopes. Little snips of scenes and dialogue run through my head in fast forward, over and over, like some cheap VCR gone on the fritz. My characters scream and rant that they'll leave for real this time if I don't stop this nonsense and get back to work. I find myself observing people in restaurants or at the shops, and thinking how perfect they'd be in a book about . . .

AGGGHHHHH!

I can't stop. I just can't stop. I am weak and I am doomed. One of those Writer-Type People. A Drama Club Kid with purple hair, black clothes, and weird music. Boo Hoo, the World is Evil so Let's Write a Poem. A Them.

As far as calling what I do ‘work' is concerned? If it implies pay, as Manly insists, then I'm working. I've been paid. I will be paid one day. I'm just not being paid right now.