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Because I Haven’t Got The Legs For Dancing

Published by Backhand Stories

Why do I write?

I’ve been asked to explain this on more than one occasion, often in a Yuletide forum by relatives who want only what’s best for me. These questions are presented with a roll of the eye or an unassuming furrowed brow and often contain the words ‘what’, ‘in’, ‘the’ and ‘hell’. Each time the question is posed, the more difficult I find it to answer. As time passes, the reasoning that once seemed so black and white, morphs more and more into a menagerie of Freudian color and malformations, looking less like the once straight forward presentation and more like the aftermath of a drunken war of paintbrushes between Pollock and Neiman.

"Write what's in your heart, Billy. Write for you. Then, and only then, will you be so poor that this rock is all you have as furniture."
“Write what’s in your heart, Billy. Write for you. Then, and only then, will you be so poor that this log is the closest thing you’ll have to furniture.”

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