I have this theory.
You have to be rich to be a writer; otherwise, you will just have to be hungry and homeless. I currently live in New York, in my cushy suburban home, on Long Island, where I grew up. What about the college graduates just like me – holding a degree in Creative Writing, but that end up with no home to return to afterward?
I know many people whose parents basically kick them out of the nest the second that the empty diploma case is placed in our sweaty, panic-stricken hands.
What do they do? What if they forgot to apply for that part-time job downtown, while they were busy studying for finals? What if they never learned how to properly budget themselves, and now they are dirt poor?
Where do they go?
What do they eat?
They eat their words, I imagine – letters for vegetables and commas for protein. Every run-on sentence is a fruit smoothie paired with a plate full of descriptive words.
These tired, hungry, now homeless students feed their souls with the words they write on the page of notebooks or loose leaf paper because the batteries of their laptops died ages ago and they have not seen an electric outlet anywhere.
I feel sorry for these graduates.
Perhaps, I will offer them some water so the thoughts can grow.