I have a friend who has recently found it difficult to write. Since he writes well — and always with sincerity — I don’t believe he has a problem.

I, on the other hand, do.

You see, the difference between my friend and I is that he longs to write for profit (no, I’ll re-phrase that: he would dearly love to make a living from writing). I think he could. Also, I am of the opinion that it would destroy his integrity as a writer.

My problem is that I find it impossible not to write. Even when I have nothing to say or when I’m too drunk or depressed or both to produce anything worthwhile, I find it absolutely necessary.

Why? Because it’s what I do for a living.

It gets me into trouble.

Burroughs once said that writing is a most dangerous profession: the writer always and forever remains responsible for what she has written.

Thing is, I have to write a lot of “opinionated” shemozzle that I don’t actually believe and, because, like my friend, I write well, my readers think I’m expressing myself, that I’m being sincere, when the reality is that I’m just “writing” — staining paper for so many shekels a page. That makes me a professional and calculated liar.

I guess it’s a cross I’ll have to bear.