And the boy left his full newspaper bag at Trout's feet, with the customer book on top. It was up to Trout to deliver these papers. He didn't have a car. He didn't have a bicycle, and he was scared to death of dogs.
Somewhere a big dog barked.
As Trout lugubriously slung the bag from his shoulder, Billy Pilgrim approached him. "Mr. Trout--?"
"Yes?"
"Are--are you Kilgore Trout?"
"Yes." Trout supposed that Billy had some complaint about the way his newspapers were being delivered. He did not think of himself as a writer for the simple reason that the world had never allowed him to think of himself in this way.
"The--the writer?" said Billy.
"The what?"
Billy was certain that he had made a mistake. "There's a writer named Kilgore Trout."
"There is?" Trout looked foolish and dazed.
"You never heard of him?"
Trout shook his head. "Nobody--nobody ever did."
Most writers live in obscurity, like Kilgore Trout. Not by choice. If writers tell you they don't care if anybody reads their work, they're lying. Every writer wants to be read. Every writer wants to connect with people through words.
That's the reason I write poems and essays. It's why I write these blog posts every night. I like to believe that somehow I make a small difference in the world with these little reflections. I may be wrong. However, I can't stop. If I didn't write, I think I'd probably go a little insane.
Writing is like breathing to me. That may sound a little melodramatic, but I would bet that, if you ask any writer, he or she would say the same thing. For me, putting words on paper is my way of making sense of the world in all its craziness.
As Forrest Gump says, "That's about all I have to say about that."
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for words.
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