To quote Flaubert, "Writing is a dog's life, but the only life worth living." Or to paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut, writers treat (cure?) their mental illnesses every day.Rousing the army of words at daybreak, sending them marching, charging, single file, line upon line, the vast territory of blank pages daring to attack and subdue, colonize and make them one’s own. At day's end, with another battle done, time to sit and, doglike, lick one’s wounds. Those once empty pages are now filled, owned though hardly obedient subjects, but carrying whatever they’ve been made to say.
But the victory is never always one of sweet contentment. Hostile terrain may have been colonized and populated, but who's to say whether or not they weren't better off left blank and unapproached.
Still, this bloodthirst to occupy and manipulate has been satisfied. A weapon more mighty than the sword has brought conquest. The ache and thirst for utterance have been treated and quenched. Until tomorrow...and another dog-life day.
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