A sly voice inside my head says, "You call yourself a writer?"
"Yes," I say.
"You know, when you say, 'I'm a writer' to people at bars when they ask what you do for a living."
The voice coughs, "Hah-EH!" And then laughs, "Hah-eh-eh! Hah-eh-eh!"
My teeth grate. "Dickhead, dickhead in my mind, shut up. Ladies don't ask where the majority my of income comes from. Women ask what I do, what I consider myself."
"Hah-eh-eh. Well...then write."
"I'd like to write, but I'm fucking tired," I say. "I work. I have another job. It pays the bills. I'm entitled to watch TV. I'm entitled to not poke and prod at the most sensitive parts of my brain just for a jumble of words which may or may not be any good."
"Eh, excuse me," the voice says. "I just thought the term 'writer' was derived from the verb 'to write.' As in 'one who writes.' But now I understand that 'writer' means one who someday aspires to write, but today is too fucking tired from paying the bills."
"Fuck you." I slap myself in the side of the head. Pain breaks over my right ear.
"You're only fucking yourself," the voice whispers.
My vision blurs, and the world spins. I fall off my chair. I hit the floor hard, right on my left elbow. It hurts. God, does it hurt. I might have hit myself too hard.
This is no way to go about life.
On the bright side, the voice is gone.
Labels: dialogue experiments