A Comfortable Existence

I have never fully described or indeed subscribed to the adjective “creative.” I don’t know what it means, but I do know what the trappings mean. They mean that as long as I describe myself as a writer I can get away with most everything. I can be moody, sullen, non-communicative and sexually rampant. That’s what “creative” people are supposed to be (unless you are John Grisham) and it covers in delightful obscurity a multitude of sins…or at least explains them. A comfortable existence. But it’s also a crock of shit. Last night I enjoyed the company of good people, two of whom are professional writers. But…each of whom (in this case) is also a husband, lover and friend to a spouse. And somehow the pretensions, elitism and wankerism just kinda faded away under scrutiny, assessment, and…quiet smiles one of which would be Hemingway’s in a quiet grave.