"Thank you." I replied. "But I am married." I glanced at the pen which was tucked inside my shirt pocket before looking back at the woman. "Not only that," I continued, "but we have hundreds and hundreds of children."
Her dazed and confused appearance was more than obvious on her face. I could tell she wanted to ask me another question, but she just couldn't seem to put a coherent sentence together to save her own life. Her feeble reaction to what I said left her a little speechless and so I spared her any further embarrassment. "You see," I went into full detail, "I am a writer. I'm married to my ink pen. When I 'make love' to it, it gives me a child in the form of a poem or a story, or a song. Believe me," I stipulated in the middle of her ironic gasp, "it's beautiful."
Our dialogue had concluded for all intent purposes, considering that she never again made it past her stumbling / mumbling behavior. I did hear her grumble something about me being crazy when she turned to make her way. Maybe she is right. Maybe I am nuts. I'm still not about to apologize to her, or to anybody, for my life choices. And no matter how you slice and dice it all, the end result will always remain the same.
I'm the father. The writer.
The pen is the mother.
The story, poem or song is the child.
And I am happily married forever.