"But why would you want to write poetry?" James insisted.

"Because.........I want to. And I like writing poetry."

"Sounds boring as hell to me," the child commented.

"It kind of is," she shrugged. "but I like doing it. People like different things, and I like writing."

"I hate writing," James said. Mostly because he couldn't do it.

"Like I said: people enjoy different things," she repeated herself.

"How do you earn money with that?" the boy continued.

She doesn't. "I....write, and then I...sell the..writing." Sure.

"Who buys it?" James' life seemed to revolve around trying to talk grown ups into an existential crisis.

"People who like poetry," she crossed her arms.