A Kind of Love

Last Friday we went to the One Story reading at the Lower East Side's Pianos bar. And truth is, I've fallen a little in love with One Story and their premise: every three weeks they publish one story, in chapbook-like format. A perfect little read, uncluttered by poems and reviews and other stories. Also a perfect read for: before bed; subway ride, etc. And the booklet's so small it fits right into your coat pocket.

Next month's reader is Margo Rabb and so I did a little googling to familiarize myself with her work before the reading itself. (Hey, I'm nothing without my geekiness.)

One of her stories, How To Tell A Story, which won the Zoetrope contest a few years back, spooofs MFA programs. (Chillingly real, let me tell you.)

Anyway, towards the end there's a passage that's the truest description of how I'm feeling about this unending drive to write...

I think now that my writing is as dear to me as a family would be, and crazy as that sounds, I think writing requires the same kind of attention, of commitment, of love, that people do. To be faithful to a story even when it fails me, to come back to it again and again when I worry that I may never make it work, that it may always disappoint me, that everything I've put into it could be lost--to know this, yet still keep writing--what could that be, if not love?

Because, really, folks: anyone with half a brain would give up and go back to law school, don't you think?