"Why must I write?" Wokmuh asked.
"Do you have to write?" Iokbirg asked.
"Yes! I do have to write?" Wokmuh responded stubbornly.
"Then you answer the question," Iokbirg laughed. He turned the question back on her. "Why must you write?" he asked.
"Because I come alive when I write!" Her eyes flashed with excitement. "I discover new worlds hidden inside me! and I discover things about myself!"
"What do you discover?"
"I discover grief I didn't know I was hiding. I discover strength that I forgot about. Sometimes I look deep within me and find something far outside of myself. I get caught up in the dialogues because I care more about how people interact then where they interact."
"Why don't you write an entire story about two people, and never once describe where they are or where they're going? For all we know, maybe they're suspended in space. Or sitting underneath a table with coloring books spread out in front of them, with too many crayons."
"It sounds to me like you should describe things. And I should continue to have people talk and talk and talk. And then have someone else enter the pictures, just to create drama, and then have more people talking and talking and talking."
"Pass the crayons," Iokbirg said. "I will paint pictures with words. And you can weave relationships with your pen."
"I prefer typing," Wokmuh admitted.
"Bring forth characters with your little finger!" Iokbirg laughed.