Why I Write (updated)

A while ago I waxed philosophical and autobiographical on why I've chosen to be a writer. Something about solitude and community, I think, and something else about the relationship between creativity and economic reality. All quite valid for when I wrote it, I'm sure, and it will no doubt all seem relevant again. But now I'm going to tell you why I'm a writer today.

     The oven light went out. It's a new oven, and I was annoyed that the light died so quickly. So I went to fix it but, probably because I was annoyed, I jerked the glass cover off the bulb instead of detaching it gently—the result being that the light bulb snapped off at the base. So now an extremely simple bulb change was turning into a chore, which had me more annoyed, at the bulb, at Frigidaire, but mostly at me. I've done this plenty of times before, though, taking a broken light bulb out of a socket by turning the glass rod in the middle. I shut off the electricity, gripped the rod, and turned. Except this time it snapped off in my hand. Probably because I was so annoyed.

     So I went to my next recourse, which I've also succeeded at several times over the years: twisting the bulb out of the socket by grabbing the edge of the metal base with a pair of pliers. I grabbed. I twisted. A sliver of metal tore off. I grabbed elsewhere, twisted again. It tore again. 
     The base was frozen into the socket, and gripping little bits of brass with the tip of my needle-nose pliers was getting me nowhere. Clearly what I needed to do was hold more of the base with a bigger pair of pliers. So I got a flat-head screwdriver, jammed it between the base and the socket, and bent it inward. Then I grabbed a whole hunk of brass with my vice-grip pliers and twisted with all my might. The ceramic ring holding the socket against the back of the oven shattered.

     I saw the good side to that, though: now I might be able to pull the socket through the hole toward me and get a better grip on the whole thing. So I brought the pliers up against the edge one more time—and the socket dropped behind the back wall of the oven. Now it's sitting in there, an open electrical socket leaning against a metal wall, useless and dangerous and unreachable without taking the whole appliance apart. So I can't use my oven until Friday when the repairman comes and charges me a fortune to get me right back to where I was this morning, ready to replace a 69¢ bulb.

    There have been many reasons in my life to make a career of writing: some practical, some daring, some wise, and some reckless. Today I write because I can't fucking do anything else.