“You never write anymore,” she tells me.
“That’s not true.” I write all the time. I write on paper and pages, both real and digital, words meant for nothing more than to be deleted and thrown away. I write in my mind and from the heart. I scribble on my skin, tracing letters on my forearm with fingertips instead of ink. I jot down lines on napkins with straw pens filled with water or soda before throwing away soggy wipes of words that will never make it to the eyes of others. I draft stories in the shower or on the road that are forgotten long before the water runs cold or the drive flows home. I compose poetry in my sleep, dreaming of words and rhymes without meter or memory when my head lifts from the pillow. I write all day, constantly, indeliberately. But seldom do I share it.