If writers write, and I am a writer, then why am I not writing? Right?
I call myself a journalist, but my journal has been lonely this past week. I’m only writing this so that I don’t go three full days without writing anything pithy here.
Oh, I’ve written stuff — on my laptop — yes, the streak is doing fine, this is Day 1,516, aren’t I something? But writing in my journal, in my handwriting, Nyuh-uh. When I pick up the pen and hold it over the blank page, nothing.
“Wait a minute,” you might say. “Aren’t you writing this little bit about not writing anything?”
It’s true. I’m a journalist writing a journal entry about nothing.
Jerry Seinfeld’s got nothing on me.
