“Going to the mattresses . . .”

I was trying to think of something clever to say, like when Tom Hanks types advice to Meg Ryan in “You’ve Got Mail.” Something from “The Godfather,” ’cause, like Hanks says, “The Godfather is the I-ching. The Godfather is the sum of all wisdom. The Godfather is the answer to any question.”

But which quote?

“Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” (Love it, but no.)

“Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday.” (Timely, but irrelevant.)

“A lawyer with his briefcase can steal more than a hundred men with guns.” (The right neighborhood, though a few blocks shy of the mark.)

“Tattaglia’s a pimp.” (Close, but no cigar.)

Or “. . . it was Barzini all along.” (Entirely off topic.)

None of them applies. Except, mebbe, this one:

“Never tell anybody outside the family what you’re thinking again.” (Yep, that’s it. Winner-winner, chicken dinner.)

Lisa Renee, let me mis-quote a different René — René Descartes: “You write, therefore you am.” Just don’t tell that to anybody outside the family. (And, by family, I mean family of writers.)

We write, therefore we am. As long as we exist, we will observe, then scribble. Or type. Or dictate. For us, words matter. Desperately. They’re our playthings. Our catnip. Our doughnuts. (Or “donuts,” if you prefer.) Little words. Big words. Even superficial, superfluous and supercilious words. Other people can’t write to save their souls. Our souls compel to write—and we dare not stop, lest we die, trying.

But there’s a major problem we writers have. A deep and profound one: We are the sound of one hand clapping. Readers must give us a hand to get closure. (And, for some of us, one hand-to-hand hand-clap isn’t enough. It’s like trying to eat just one potato chip; we try, but crave more.)

What to do . . .

My solution? I focus on the writing part. The intricate weaving of words and punctuation and edits.

Does that mean I don’t seek readers? Of course I do. (I crave, too.) But, sometimes, it’s just God, me and my iMac that make the lonely editorial journey to “The End.”

But enough of that somber stuff.

Lisa Renee, I liked what you wrote. Enjoyed the imagery. Made it to the end and then smiled. Best of all, I enjoyed your closing line: “Keep writing, keep reading. It’s really all we can do.”

I agree and will adapt it for my own: I’ll keep writing, keep reading. It’s really all I can do.