Some times I look in the mirror and wonder if that dude in there lives a parallel life.
One where he makes a fantastic living as a writer. Where he writes things with immediate impact, as well as things that might be read generations from now. Things that make a difference, you know?
Writing that fulfills him, as well as makes him yearn to create more. And more. Causing a never ending hunger to explore and share and feel and learn and screw-up and help.
I wonder if his writing is sometimes interrupted by a couple of incorrigibly cute, and freakishly tall, kids with dirty faces crawling over his lap. Pawing at his papers. Leaning on the space bar. Giggling. And making him smile so much that his cheeks hurt a little.
I wonder if he is occasionally rescued from this tiny army of sticky fingered urchins by a patient wife.
A woman who is an amalgam of all the female characters on The West Wing. A woman who somehow inexplicably finds his pain in the assness to be endearing.
A woman whose strengths make up for his (numerous) weaknesses. And, of course, vice versa.
I wonder if he appreciates it all.
And other times I look in the mirror and wonder, “Where the hell did that scar on my chin come from?”