On Writing

Writing is a pressure valve. Without it, I would be taut with unexpressed feeling only loosened through sex, violence, or (bottom) half-naked dancing around a fire in front of a good New England couple who, after locking themselves in the panic room, wondered how I ever got into their house. Yeah, the help doesn't really like you. I do like those fireplaces that go through the wall from the kitchen to the living room. Dancing around them is certainly aerobic (oh, here he comes again).

Writing establishes an equilibrium. It is a method of resolving that limitless burning within, not as fun and no safer than sex, but available with less compromise, though I do sacrifice brunch, and the testosterone rush is a bit weaker.