This is the only consistent joy I have ever known, and that joy is the reason I write, why I will (in all likelihood) always write, despite the occasional promise to stop “when the time is right.”

Three months ago, your author happened into an old acquaintance (“old” in the sense neither of us has been in the other’s life for the better part of a decade) and since then we have steadily exchanged electronic notes. Last week she wrote and nicely asked, Can I have an autographed copy of one of your books? Just as nicely I answered, No, you may not – for one thing, none of my books (all written prior to 1997) are worth reading, as they were all written before my intellect caught up with my talent; for another, there are only a few copies of The 5 Minutes of Silence (a slightly less awful 1998 release) left on the planet, I own them, and if they disappear, I have no interest in paying to have others printed. She understood; when the next book comes out, could she get an autographed copy of that one? Yes, of course she could.

The next book she spoke of – I have previously vowed never to never again mention its name in this space, and won’t – is being written and compiled even now, a collection featuring some of these newer columns along with various older and unreleased pieces, and will be finished in mid-December. Meanwhile, work will begin on yet another book in September or October; the search for that book’s editor continues.

Though the decision to write a book in the Fall was made in April, the scope of the commitment didn’t occur to me until last weekend: In doing this, I am duty-bound to writing and / or researching every single day of the week for an undetermined period of months (one column every four days with its customary efforts along with ancillary book work in between) … who in their right mind should desire this? And so the question has been asked again, as it has so many times over the years, Why write, especially when life is so much easier without the torture?

Someone will read the last line and think, Really now, torture? Yes, torture. No one believes this can be so; people seem to have either an exaggerated or romantic notion of the writer and his efforts, believing out of ignorance (not a spiteful or neglectful ignorance, but the sort of ignorance that comes from just not knowing any better) the effort cannot at all resemble work, but is instead a way for certain people – who may or may not be legitimately talented, with otherwise perfectly functioning bodies and minds – to avoid getting their hands dirty and finding real jobs. For some people, because they love writing so much, this is indeed the case. George Will, for one example, rises in the morning with a singular thought in his head: Do I have to write today? If the answer is yes, he’s truly content and goes about his task joyously. Needless to say, this is not one of the happy coincidences in character Mr. Will and I share.

Truth be told, there cannot be a more commonly excruciating circumstance that writing, this coming from a guy who once physically rehabilitated himself after hip and ankle reconstructions because he didn’t want to pay the professionals. Given this opinion, the Inevitable Question will always be, Then why bother? Many reasons: One, because I don’t possess any other talent to which I can dedicate myself – unless you count a near-misanthropy that often borders on a cruelty which, even though it often causes great distress within those close to me, I have no desire to change. This doesn’t bode well for any field of reasonable work other than movie critic, fashion critic or stand-up comic, neither of which are appealing as an occupation.

Two, perhaps you haven’t noticed, your author is much too opinionated not to say something, about many things, most of the time. Everyone had an opinion when that intern was being used as a humidor … the difference between me and the next guy is, the next guy wasn’t overwhelmed by the desire to explain his points to anyone who would listen. Writing was chosen not only because it’s a talent, but because it’s a means by which I can advance salient points, and violent objections, without the threat of arrest.

Three, as a reformed liberal (a very active liberal) there are far too many skeletons in the closet – and what’s more, I’m a little too up front with what I think and believe – to be a politician. (Setting a turban on fire while S.O.D.’s “Fuck the Middle East” played in the background wouldn’t have made a very good State of the Union speech, though it’s the speech I’d have made as President.) A politician, here a Republican politician, cannot get away with the sort of things lurking in my past, so any effort to run for office would be a wasted one, not only because I wouldn’t win but because it would inevitably do damage to the party. (There will be an autobiography someday, all will be told.)

Four, I would be an unabashed failure on television or radio for all those reasons and more.

Most of these things can only rarely be explained to anyone who doesn’t write; people either understand there is a need for writers of every stripe (read a cereal box lately? Someone does that for a living) or a certain romanticism attached to the craft, thanks in no small part to rare exceptions like Ernest Hemingway, who lent himself so passionately to a ridiculous exercise like the running of the bulls, and who cuts a permanent figure as a man who sat with F. Scott Fitzgerald outside small cafes in Paris discussing themselves and the World’s problems. (Mostly themselves, one guesses.) No one bothers to think of Hemingway at the end, with the shotgun in his mouth, buckshot and brain scattered all over the furniture (a more accurate representation of the writer, as a metaphor and often in fact as well).

Unemployment lines are surely well stocked with writers who truly believe they have come across their one true gift but cannot translate that gift into dollars. Certainly I am one of those, and as much as I would truly love to sit at home and try to “make it” as a columnist, the idea of being unemployed has come to terrify me considerably (though I despise hard work), as has the idea of needlessly taking money from taxpayers. There seems to be much more dignity in being poor, employed and struggling to succeed as a writer than poor, unemployed and striving valiantly for my dream while everyone else my age draws a legitimate paycheck.

Sometime during the late summer of 2000, I met a girl named Jennifer Bednarek, an exceedingly bright and attractive college girl who was taking and enjoying a philosophy class. (I don’t think she’ll mind the public mention; she agreed to edit for me in early 2001 and was mentioned with great fanfare, and regularly, during that time.) Over the months I came to adore her (and still do, though we no longer speak), finally asking her one day, “Have you started writing your first book of social philosophy yet?” Her look was of the forlorn yet hopeful writer aching for that ideal and unable to proceed; the response, No.

Her expression will never be forgotten, as it’s come to represent writing: a torture to be sure, but more of a torture when you cannot experience the remarkable and intoxicating joy of those times when the words have come out perfectly. Truly, this is the only consistent joy I have ever known, and that joy is the reason I write, why I will (in all likelihood) always write, despite the occasional promise to stop “when the time is right.”