I am full of questions, but only in private. In the external world, I have a raging curiosity, but it rarely takes the form of questions. Instead, I am an information sponge (albeit sometimes dried up). But questions need be asked, do they not? As I read, as I write, as I communicate with friends, thoughts enter my subconscious that only come out when I am alone.
1. If God turned out to be a child, what would you teach her?
2. If a friend falls in a pit, and you can only pull them out by standing on firm ground, however, they cannot hear you from inside their pit, how do you get them out?
3. If you have many people who consider you a friend, but none whom you consider to be yours, do you have friends?
4. When I read a book I don’t like, I rate it (Amazon, Goodreads, etc.) as though I don’t like, or even hate it. Does that mean I am a traitor to writers everywhere, or a boon to future writers?
5. Do all writers have problem with members of the opposite sex “loving” their words and thinking it’s them? Can writers have groupies?
6. How can it be that in a world of 3.5 billion females, we still speak of crimes against women? If men were the victims of rape, how would our solutions be different?
7. Do people realize that those of us who don’t really watch TV almost never feel like there isn’t enough time?
8. How old is old?
9. Why are crazy women attracted to the internet?
10. Are male-female platonic relationships really possible? Is there always an undertone, and if so, does that make it better, or worse?