'About five years ago a friend was mugged on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She told me later that she threw up her arm and immediately yelled, "Don't kill me, I'm a writer!" "How odd," I thought at the time. "Why did she think that would save her?"
Writers get confused. We think writing gives us an excuse for being alive. We forget that being alive is unconditional and that life and writing are two separate entities.
Often we use writing as a way to recieve notice, attention, love. "See what I wrote. I must be a good person."
We are good people before we ever write a word.'
Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within