Yes. Dreadful. Painful. Personally malicious. Yes. Yes I want to be a writer. No, I AM a writer. I can’t stop myself. I find myself these days staying up late at night, into the early hours of the morning writing, rewriting, thinking, plotting, smoking cigars drinking too much wine but yet I am and doing it all over again because, yes it is bursting out of me for the first time in years. With red, blurry, puffy eyes I sit in front of my glowing screen to write what’s been locked away, screaming to get out because I can no longer contain it. And thank you Charles Bukowski for giving me permission to lose hours of sleep for something I’ll never make millions of dollars for but doing something that I absolutely love. Something I can’t stop myself from doing anymore, happily I will never be one of the 40,000 (male or not) you so eloquently and indelibly etched upon me many years ago.