A new acquaintance asks amiably, “What do you write about?”

“I – uh – “

You might think after seventy-two years and millions of published words, I might know. I know what I don’t write about – to instruct, explain, report, convince, peddle. I chose not to make writing my livelihood, for then market would dictate topic. I write for the same reason painters paint or musicians play, because they feel like it, like to, to pass the time. Did troglodytes hum in the shower? Did Eve weave a chaplet for her shiny hair (for she had nothing else to do all day)?

Because language is a logical system, it expects logical replies. One’s supposed to have a reason for doing what one’s doing which one can express and defend. Pooch Henry sunbathing isn’t asked to explain himself, lucky dog. No one asks him – nor does he ask himself – to justify his earthly time. Jesus’ parable of the talents plays poorly in dogdom.

I write what I see. In this I resemble the Impressionists who took their easels and palettes outdoors and painted what they saw. Their subject might be nothing – a hill, a street, a dancer yawning – no famous face – or fable to restrain behavior. Their subject was what they made of it, their emotion, which, with any luck, they’d evoke in you, using color and form. Sharing feelings feels grand, the best feeling there is, persuading us of purpose, that we are not alone.

I write to entertain – myself with the making, and you, of course, otherwise why bother. More than amuse, I want to wriggle into your affections, like smoke under a door. I have no idea how this is done, only that it has been done – to me – often – so why not give it a whirl. I hunger for your affection because it nourishes me, as food does. As tots ache to please their parents, I you, because what else is there really? All humans try to do this in their way. Those who don’t have a screw loose.

Is there value in what I produce? To me, surely, it makes time fly, but beyond that is up to you. I see what I see, notice what I notice, say as agreeably I can, and am glad in the doing and your regard. The Golden Rule governs – in words as in life: do unto others. I loathe bloviators, frauds, liars, browbeaters, slicksters, so try not to be one.

Do I hope for my words a lasting effect? What writer doesn’t? I root for that sophomore centuries hence to slide my book off the shelf: go ahead, Sally, take a peak! But that is a dream, like the hope of heaven. I write for you and me now – because I feel like it, love to, and humans must do something with their time. (Dogs, Henry grunts in his sleep, do not.)

Is my scrutiny too self-directed? I worry about that. Narcissus drowned kissing his reflection: why so much me?

I discuss myself not to brag – all bragging is fatuous: evidence of ignorance – but to explore. Inwardness is not waywardness, it’s my only way into the mystery of being which humans (and only humans) detect. My story is yours, plus or minus, our joys and tears and fears alike, and if I can bring my life to life, maybe you will find there some resemblance to yours to reassure. That we are like one another makes us like one another: we’re in this game together.

Only for humans is being complicated and fearful. That is our curse. That is our gift.