Vanity, Vanity, all is Vanity

So I looked up an ex-internet-Friend (read: flirt partner) a coupla months ago. And before you start getting any ideas, yes, we're just friends (not FWBs, either, mind, but merely people who know a lot about each other and don't mind the occasional 'how are you?' email back and forth)

Thing is, he used to be over a group I used to write for. Good stuff, too. A good group, that. People submitted pieces, commented. He wrote too. And for whatever reason, I left the group, but still kept in touch with him, and then that faded out, too. When I caught up with him, of course I asked him about his writing.His answer: he was concerned his Muse had left!

Are we Tortured Artists or what?!

So we got to talking about inspiration and how age and life can take its toll on writing, and how your style changes, etc. Long story short, I've got myself an audience.

And seeing as how C. ("I don't get it, but I know you like to write that stuff, so I'll support you in it") doesn't want anything to do with the actual reading of any of my work, I have to say I like the fact that someone out there will read it. I like knowing that someone likes it and will actually ask for more. I used to feel this way about actual sex, but those days are long gone, so I settle for being a bit of all right at writing about it. And liking it.

And having others read about it, which I enjoy immensely. Which, I guess makes me a little bit vain.

And maybe in some weird way, trampy? Heh. who'da thunk it!