ìIíve decided to quit writing.î
No remark answered this from the other end of the table.
She tried again. ìIíve wasted my life away sitting in front of that computer screen. Iím ready to start living life instead of just writing about it.î
From the look on his face she knew he didnít believe her. She hardly believed herself.
Writing had, in a way, been her only identity. Whatever her ìactual,î money-making job had been (and these had been many, and appallingly varied), if anyone asked her about herself, sheíd always answered ìIím a writer.î
This had been true her whole life. As a child she heard clearly an author-voice in the back of her headóor sometimes the story was being typed, and she saw the typewriter and the sheet of paper filling with wordsócommenting on how she went about her daily business: ìEllen stood in her room, wondering where to go next. The kitchen was a likely option. She could practically taste the chocolate milk that awaited her there.î So it would go on, paragraphs upon paragraphs in her head (always in third person, occasionally employing synonyms), proceeding too quickly and erratically to write down.
That was Ellenís problem now. She didnít lack material; she was overwhelmed by it. The older she got, the more stuff there was to record. So much demanded her attention that when she was finished devoting attention, she had no desire left to transform what she had just experienced into coherent sentences.