What does one say when one sits down to write? He could speak of the sound of somebody outside wheeling the big plastic garbage can to the curb, or cars going down the road, or planes across the sky, or of his incandescent thoughts dancing through his skull. He could speak of everything wrong or of everything right. He could speak his mind or pretend to speak somebody else’s. He could piss and moan—and he undoubtedly will—but of all the things one could say when one sits down to write, he’ll never reveal himself to you.
He’ll only show you who he was or will be, or would be if he weren’t so preoccupied with showing you how he wants to be seen. He’ll show you how articulate he can be, without ever actually giving you anything worth giving your thoughts over to completely. He’ll beat himself over the head for you, just to show you how recklessly benign he is to the whole thing, and how much he’s willing to suffer just to show you what he wants you to see.
But then, through all his pomp and circumstance, all his base vulgarities, all his dog and pony show, he finds a glowing white gem of something human right there beneath his narrative skin. He looks at you from the page, holding his discovery out to you so that you may do with it what you will. And he learns to hope for nothing more from having shared the thoughts that come to him.