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.
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