It wasn’t an ordinary doctor’s office.

There was a private gate, at the end of a forest drive.

The house was supported by Greek columns in the style of the Parthenon.

I got out of my Volvo, and walked up at least 100 steps to his front door.

I knocked.

Hopefully, he could help me.

The door opened a crack, and I looked into his sophisticated face.

He motioned me inside.

We walked down a dark hall to a well-lit room.

“Tell me your troubles,” he said.

“I go through my routines, but they don’t give me pleasure.”

“Have you thought about mixing it up a bit?”

“That’s the problem, doc. Anytime I think about doing something else, it seems boring. It’s like I’m going through the motions or something.”

“Maybe, you need more spontaneity?”

“That could be true, but bad things usually happen to me—and not the good.”

“Like what?”

“A flat tire, an unpaid credit bill, a pound of fat (from a good meal)—I rarely pick-up money off the freeway.”

“And this is causing you to feel desperate?”

“Yes. I tried to order my life, but it only became boring. I cleaned my apartment yesterday, and swept myself into a corner.”

“I see.”

“How do you do it, doc?”

“Do what?”

You won awards in psychiatry. You compose music. How many languages do you speak?”


“You see, I only speak one. I tried to learn two, but it was too much for me.”

“Maybe you are focusing on the wrong things…”

“That could be. I want to be a writer, but my routines are strangling me.”

“An artist depends on their schedule. There is no way around that. What I suggest you do is a bit unorthodox.”

“What doc? —I’ll do anything.”

“Stop writing.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then, you know what you are, and that is more than most people know. If you can’t stop writing, there is no reason to worry. Fame, will be empty. Money, won’t give you what you want. Only the writing. Remember that.”

“Thanks doc. What can’t you stop?”

“Listening to people like yourself, and then giving them advice.”

2 thoughts on “I Can’t Stop Writing. My Psychiatrist Can’t Stop Giving Advice.

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