One question you don't want to ask of your writer friend.

Assuming you move in a more or less literate circle, meaning that you all read books, you probably have at least one friend who fancies himself or herself a writer. Maybe that person has actually had something published or, more likely, is hoping to someday.

So let's assume you haven't seen that person in a while and meet up with him or her. After the usual pleasantries, you say, remembering that he or she was/is/hopes to be a writer: "Are you still writing?"

It seems like the most innocent thing to say, expressing your interest, reminding him or her that you remember that he or she was/is/hopes to be a writer.

Wrong!

What you have just asked implies that you don't know if that person is still writing because you haven't seen anything he or she has written or read anything about what he or she has written. Your question implies the awful obvious: your friend has not achieved any kind of recognition. Otherwise, you would have heard.

Your friend is probably painfully aware that nothing he or she has written has risen to the level of public attention, probably hasn't even been published. But that doesn't mean that he or she has given up on writing, as if it were some kind of hobby that went by the wayside, like knitting or hang-gliding. People who write do it pretty much their whole lives, and they're always hoping against hope that what they write will someday come to the attention of readers like you. It's very embarrassing for them to have to acknowledge that the reason you don't know if they're still writing is that nothing they've written has come to the attention of anyone but their mothers.

The same holds true for artists. Never say, "Are you still painting?" "Are you still working in clay?" "Are you still doing that graphic art stuff?" What you're saying is that nothing they've done is visible to you, an informed patron of the arts. Implied, again, is that nothing they've done has proven worthy of being displayed. What you're saying, without saying, is something like this: "Have you finally given up that stupid dream you had of being famous? Are you back to being like us, just making a living and counting down the days until you die, when you'll be utterly forgotten except for your relatives, who will also eventually die, leaving you unknown forever?"

Ouch!

That's the last thing a writer or an artist wants to hear: that someday it will all be over, and he or she, who gave up so much to produce what he/she considered to be important art, will be swept into the dustbin of history. And all artists do give up a lot -- time, mainly, all that time not spent in front of the TV or even having fun with friends -- and don't expect much in return. Money, too. Very few writers or artists earn much from their art; they do it because they think it matters. Real artists do what they do because they think they're interpreting life in a way no one else has done before and just hope lots of the rest of us agree with them and pay them for their efforts, or at least pay attention.

Alas, it doesn't work out that way for most writers and artists. Most who pursue their own visions do so at their peril, financially and socially and otherwise. Most are not understood or appreciated. For every prize-winner, there are a hundred -- a thousand? -- maybe equally talented but without the contacts, who live and work and die in obscurity. And often what they did write or paint or sculpt or photograph or orchestrate is discarded when they die, along with their old books and bedding and underwear.

And in the meantime, they've often sacrificed relationships, because they were too consumed by their art to pay proper attention to their loved ones, and they've missed all those great new shows on TV because they were too busy working on their art. Yes, they bring it on themselves -- nobody asks them to be artists, after all -- but, if they're serious, they can't help it. (And, to their credit, the worthiest of them admit to feeling bad about being so selfish and apologize, publically or privately, to those they've hurt or neglected.)

So don't say to your writer/artist friend: "Are you still writing/painting?" Say instead, "What are you working on now?" And be prepared for either a vague answer or one that goes on so long that it makes you wish you hadn't asked in the first place. Writers and artists aren't the easiest friends to have, but the best of them are what makes life worth living.

Indulge them, up to a point. Just don't ask them if they're still writing or painting or whatever.