I can’t write ’round her, he twitched. She ruins my craft, my art, he said. And for what? Why do I do this to myself? Is it that I’m scared to be alone.
Women are the death of art, his friend groaned. They make it impossible to be in the moment, he said. Everything is planned. Meals are planned, walks are planned, screwing is planned. But, writing cannot be planned, his voice shook.
They try to plan it. They try to give you instructions on your art. On your life.
You disregard those?
Yes. I have to. I would’ve killed myself along time ago if I followed her plans. Yet, I cannot leave.
No place to go. That’s when they gotcha.