Writers Anonymous

“Hi. My name’s Thomas, and I’m a writer.”

There, I finally admitted it.

Like all of us in Writers Anonymous (WA), I betrayed friends, disappointed family and alienated acquaintances. And now I’ve hit bottom.

“The writer is either a practicing recluse or a delinquent, guilt-ridden one, or both. Usually both,” wrote social critic Susan Sontag.

Sadly, she’s right.

I confess I love words more than I do most people. Writing confounds, seduces, instructs and betrays. People simply can’t compete. And like booze, it gnaws away until you’re a fragment of what you might become. Particularly when the results are lackluster.

“There are no dull subjects. There are only dull writers,” columnist H.L. Mencken wrote.

I’ve tried to control my writing. I’d hoped producing just one weekly 180-word essay would wean me from self-destruction. It hasn’t. Addiction is a terrible thing to confront.

But I’ve taken the pledge now. I’m atop the wagon and go to meetings. As WA founder and humorist Robert Benchley advised, “Drawing on my fine command of the language, I said nothing.”

One day at a time.