When I read good writing, I feel numb. When I read Didion or Sinclair and Steinbeck, these undisputed masters of the form, I have no choice but to drop my pen, like a slugger after a called third strike. It is a paralyzing feeling that drains my thoughts. I offer only a self fulfilling prophecy of my future failings. I swear an oath, like a felon, never to write again. The form is not for me; its secrets are sealed. I swear to not approach it again. Yet I break my oath, this minor sin, again and again, with a simple poem or song, I do try. But I only rediscover, even more tragically than before, the validity of my oath, how right I was to swear it. I must not write. The written word is for the writers.
But hearing the piano is different. It doesn’t intimidate. It is…
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AirportBurrito 