Writers don't write.
Reflect on that. It's an odd statement.
Plumbers plumb. Assistants assist. Zookeepers shovel shit.
Et cetera.
"Writers do not write," he said. The screenplay teacher was adamant.
Hearing that, and acting quizzical in order to not betray my own lack of discipline in the art after heaving degree money at a respected university, I knew what he meant without conveying my acknowledgement that he was right on. And so I listened for him to continue. But he didn't
Fully aware he was talking about me without talking about me, I couldn't ask what he meant. I would surely expose myself as evidence of this heresy if, upon asking his meaning, he inquired about my most recent achievements in pen to paper. I hadn't scribed a single comma for marked publication...ever. It sure sounded nice when the tipsy and flirtatiously pretty doctor at the end of the bar asked me what else I did after serving her the most perfect Budweiser in a bottle ever known to womankind and I told her I wanted to be a writer.
It sounded nice.
So my screenplay teacher and I sat there, drinking from heavy glasses and making them lighter, and making heavy issues out of lighter ones. Barstool revolutionaries, surely and with purpose. I was going home after this inspiration to sit at my desk and knock IT out, some work of brilliance - at least the germ of which, to be continued for the next few months or so that it would take, until I had honed my version of great American fiction. I couldn't wait to get there. I did, and passed out.
I was a bartender, nothing more.
