He's right.

He looked at me and said, "Why aren't you writing more?!"
I shrugged. I had no answer.
"No. Seriously," he insisted. "Why are you holding back? You're like ... "
He was lost for words ... "You're like ... really, really good."
I nodded. I know. I'm at least aware that some talent exists here ... in these hands, in this mind ...
Within this being hides a soul that lives for love of the written word.

He placed his hands on my shoulder and gripped them, his fingers kind of pressing too hard into my flesh. I winced. But his steely eyes lost none of their resolve. And I saw no pity there.
"You wrote that post - you're the one who said writers write. Why aren't you - this beautiful, talented,  creative soul ... why aren't you ... writing?"
I shook my head. "I do write, but ..."
"But nothing."

Silence. He stared into my eyes with a kind of passionate disappointment.
He dropped his hands and sighed.
"If I could write like you ..."
He sighed again.
"Do me a favour ... do the flipping world a favour ... just write. It's your thing. You are so damn good at it. Why are you hiding from this? Why are you so comfortable so far below where you could be? I've never known you to be ... average."
His voice was filled with angry, desperate pain ... like I hurt him somehow.

"OK," I said.
He nodded.
I nodded.
"OK."