Two Writers Two Styles

I can write about everything she tells me. Words flow as easily as water. Great! I say. Let’s spend some time writing. She stares at my fingers as they move quick and loud. What are you writing about? She asks me. I am writing about you, I say. She doubts me, so I read her some of it. She sits in silence, staring. An hour later I have six poems. She has a blank page. All of that writing scared me, she says. I cannot write with all of that racket. She carries the blank page around for two days. There is not even a dot on it. I’ll write when I get home she tells me. I write all the time, I can hardly stop writing. I pretend to believe her and wish her well. We are writers. Both of us, But with different techniques. I am the loud enthusiastic one. She is the silent invisible one.