When I met people I used to tell them I’m a writer, but I’ve learned that that was a mistake. They always said “Oh,” a little like I’d just farted or something and then they’d ask “What do you write?” Fiction? Novels? Short stories? I never knew how to explain that I just write, all the time, everything, always. How could I tell them that after our introduction I would be writing it down in my notebook? Should I show them the notebook with scribbled notes and ideas and scraps, bits of overheard dialogue or observations on the human condition? Sometimes they’d press me for details, like whether I’d written anything they might have read or if my writing was like some author they liked. “Not likely. I’m not published unless you count the handwritten books I leave in the library.” I do that: leave books in random places like the library or in the park or in those small library huts people erect on their lawns. Take one leave one, but I only leave one. Or two. Depends on how much I’ve written lately.