So listen.
I go to work nearly every morning, and this is what I do.
But Dr. A got me thinking. He tells me, he’s really a bass player at heart. He air guitars and everything. So what am I?
What am I? I paused. I used to be a writer. Everything in my head just spilled out into words, and if I didn’t type away, it just disappeared like fog on a sunny day. Then I forget that I used to be a writer. My gawd, I haven’t written in months. I’ve done paperwork, but my fingers ache to dance its own rhythm again.
I paused just now to check some labs and I/Os. Dammit, it never ends.
So I’m rusty now. I don’t know if I remember how to write anymore. At heart, if I’m a writer, it shall come again, yes?
My days are filled with rounding and notes and labs and orders and patients, and my nights are lonely with a glowing computer screen and an obnoxious pager whose presence I never ask for. So I shall write tonight. And here it is. Maybe I’m back.
