A friend has asked me many times why he writes, why I write, why anyone writes. I always say it doesn’t matter why, but that they do, for their own reasons. Why worry about the intangible? Worrying about why seems unimportant, or maybe this is just me. Tonight I’m thinking about the living, the life/art of any writer, the irrational reasoning in it, around it, the framework of it, and, I’m thinking, that much like writing, maybe life is something we just have to do. Maybe life is the one extraordinary metpahor we need to keep writing.