I am not a writer.
I scribbled something on my notepad last night I know I will never polish, publish, or edit.
I used to blame it on my laptop.
My kids used it with sticky fingers to watch whatever is that kids watch. It no longer gave me pleasure to write on it.
But when I tried to be a cyclist, I remember a day I rode with my mom’s bike. A cruiser with a bread basket on front and squiggly wheels at 25 miles per hour. Spinning, spinning, spinning with the usual Tuesday night pack.
I so loved cycling I rode with that and after that I definitely retired her bike and I repaired mine.

So a laptop with a little of syrup on its keyboard should not be much to stop a writer from writing.

Neither should be the fear of not making bank. The shame of working for pennies and not enough glory nor pride. The growing suspicion that his readers are now friends who will read whatever he writes just like once my mother did. Maybe in fear and traumatized. No parent should read their children’s writing. Hence, I don’t write in Spanish.

And I’m afraid of adding to the noise of an already noisy forest. And I console myself by saying that I make money out of the vulnerable and sick by pretending I nurse them. What a lie!

And I scratch my writing itch by submitting you to my comments…

Maybe someone should write a piece about it.
Pablo