Why do we write?

What is it about some of us that drives us to put our thoughts down so that we can share them with others. What is it that makes us, allows us, to peer into those dark corners of our psyche and write – when it would take sodium pentothal to get any of us to speak of what we see.

I've had conversations with two extraordinary writers lately, and that got me thinking about why some of us write, even when we believe that no one could possibly be interested in what we have to say.

The first writer I'll call Joy, since that's her name (and she's not innocent, so I see no reason to change her name).

Joy is one of the most interesting and unique people I have had the pleasure of meeting, and she's had one of the most intriguing journeys through life. She's survived cancer. She's survived a divorce. She survived putting a child up for adoption and, wonder of wonders, found her again as an adult. She's survived teaching children for God knows how many years. And she's survived being a Liberal in the Conservative South. Go figure.

Want to know a secret? Sit down with a literary agent and tell them that information, in a nutshell, and they'd go bat-shit over you. I've seen them go bat-shit over so much less. Show them that you can string a set of words together in a coherent manner and they'll beat a path to your door, anoint you with oil and hand feed you dates and figs.

If all she wrote was some tripe called ``10 Things I Learned Beating Cancer and Not Beating Your Kids,'' she'd be on bestseller lists. Oprah would have her on instead of Dr. Phil. She'd have Katie Couric in tears, sharing survivor stories over coffee. And, joy of joys for Joy, Graham Norton might want to visit HER instead of Dollywood!

The only one who doesn't see that is Joy.

I'm going to let the cat out of the bag here – in case it was ever in the bag: Joy is writing a screenplay based loosely on her life. Well, part of her life. I think she's leaving out the part about her roof leaking today. Those of you who haven't found my site through hers, and there may be one of you, please email her encouragement on a regular basis. Tell her to get her ass in gear and finish that screenplay – bless her heart. Oprah is waiting.

The other writer is Julia.

Julia has a literary voice that cuts through convention, cuts through the crap and cuts right to your heart and/or funny bone. She's insightful. She's witty. She's one of those women who can say `fuck' and not make it sound like she's using a four-letter bailout because she can't think of a better word.

Now, the hint for Julia should have come the other day, when a lame-brained, L.A. screenwriter-wannabe emailed her and confessed that he stole a couple of her posts and put them in a script. No matter what else this guy may have done, he shows good taste – he's stealing from one of the very best.

Julia's writing cries out for a bigger audience. It cries out for Reece Witherspoon, or Renee Zellwhatever – someone to say her words on the stage or screen. There are asses out there just dying to be laughed off at what she has to say. And I don't mean the asses who keep putting Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire on television. Well, actually, they're waiting, too.

If you've read her site, you'll understand when I say: Julia!!!!! Capitalize!!! Please!!!!!

And I don't mean using the shift key.

Both of you have something important to say. Both of you have a deep-seeded need to share – a need that was put there for a reason. And both of you have a wonderful gift for communicating with the rest of us. Please, please do.

More soon.