Writ & Read

Writ sits in solitude, fingers tap-dancing a rhythm out of key: Letters sprinkling like chocolate on vanilla; Words embracing like Adam and Eve; Sentences fastening like speeding locomotive cars; Paragraphs supporting like old-age-home banisters.

Writ writes himself – that is, Writ writes himself into the pages. Writ never writes fiction – there is no such thing as fiction: if someone says there is, then that someone is a fictionist. Many writers hide behind their words – after all, it never feels good to be naked in a clothing store – Writ, however, words his way out of hiding: letters are the fingers with which he unbuttons his shirt; words, the hands with which he undresses his soul.

Read stands in company, fingers dog-earing pages yellowed: (Paper)back hunched like Quasimodo; Spine tingled like A. Christy mystery; Preface blushing like the cheek of Cosette; Epilogue experienced like Jean Valjean.

Read reads others – that is, Read reads what others have written. Read never reads non-fiction – after all, for non-fiction Read has but to look out the window. It is fiction, that thing only found in endings fair and tales fairy, what Read so desperately craves.

Who are you, Writ or Read?