A Note on Writing

Once upon a time…

I wrote.  I wrote brilliantly and heart-fully.  I filled pages with essential words- important words- words which were my own unique magic.

All words, once upon a time, cast spell when written by me.  Lately I have worried that my writing suffers… from… life? Time? Me?  So I set about creating a list of why I write.  Why. I. Write.

I write for exposure (as in to expose myself), for confession.

I write to prod at the rawness in me: to see if it heals at all or if it stagnates.

I write because everything- good, bad, despairing, indifferent- dictates that I must.

I do not write as a luxury, although I recognize that it is indeed a luxury.

I write because if I do not, the brutal part of me- the undoing and damaging part- wins.

I write because when I am alone, I don't want to be; because when I witness all of the magnificence of experience, I am compelled to share it.  Life, words, should be shared.  They should be savored, these words, our lives, they should be given, shared, cherished and loved.

And until I am without my words, my writing-

Until then...