“You’ll write about this.”
“No, I won’t. I’m not a writer. I’m a reader.”
“You’ll write about this.” The voice repeated.
“No, I won’t!” I insisted like a two-year-old.
I was engaged in a typical conversation; rather, in this case, an argument between me and myself. I spent hours walking through the Spanish countryside with a large green backpack, staring cows, and that voice as my only companion.
The voice was quiet, but I felt its presence.
“But I don’t write!” I whined. So instant was I at arguing my limitations that I barley noticed the fresh gusts of wind brushing my face, and the grass dancing up through the rocks.
“Write like Miguel de Cervantes, one episode at a time for the local newspaper,” responded the always calm, always persistent voice.