Last night I had early drinks with an old high school friend then spent a couple of hours with my oldest friend, Clay. Clay and I went to elementary school together and have somehow remained friends. Discussing our passions, mine for writing, his for music, Clay asked me if I was still in love with writing. The question hit me, it was nothing I'd ever thought of. I know I love writing, even when I hate it. I know I love the process, slow as it sometimes may be, of creating. But in love with my writing? If I am, it has been a very long time since I've thought about it. What would being in love with my writing feel like? Should we be in love wit our art? Would we fall into the same trappings of romantic love, overlooking fatal flaws of creation? That fancy flight into devastation? Ug, no. I don't want to be in love with my writing.