[Step One: Resentment] Hi, My name is Quentin. I'm a write-a-holic. I can't control it, can't curb the urge to write. I need help. I want my life back.
[Step Two: Commitment] I write poems on fast food napkins, with toothpicks, using ketchup for ink. I jot ideas for poems on my arms and legs. When I run out of space, I use my shoes. I make motions similar to Michael Jackson's moonwalk when I need to erase.
I make up stories while making love to my wife. She left me. Who needs her? She was suffocating my creativity.
I await submission replies like an addict, hands trembling, head shaking in disbelief. Not another bout with rejection! I'm manic depressive. I'm happy to be here. No I'm not.
I live for revision. Instead of sex, I have poems. I eat feedback.
[Step 3: Contentment] As a recovering write-a-holic, admitting my problem has provided a much needed catharsis. Joining this nurturing group has
(Excuse me, but are you going to throw away that paper cup? That's good paper!)