On those few blessed mornings a week that my house is as still as an empty auditorium, I sit at the computer and ask the words to dance. Some days they tango. Most times they stand defiantly on skinny legs and glare at me.  On days like today, I have the audacity to poke them until they move. Life is almost pre-pandemic normal-busy-overwhelming , and already I'm worn out. Kids, job, household, wife - it's a frenzied four-step hustle. I'm not funny. I'm not insightful. My heels blister. And I'm doing a terrible job of writing and submitting regularly. If I don't scribble out essays for publishing, am I still a writer? Are my words still real if nobody reads them?  What does being a writer actually mean?