The daily writing life isn’t easy.
It’s a solitary existence
It’s lonely and depressing
It’s hunger and passion
It’s discovery and loss, it’s painful,
Full with wonder, depth, and can
Push me to the very brink of crazy.
I howl to the moon, growl, and pant,
Dance and swirl, swarm as bees
Do to flowers. My words burning
Up space, clamoring for attention, escaping
To be part of something, to link, if only to cease
The solitary existence, make a family
From the sentence, have friends in the graf.
Four-hundred-twenty-two multiplied by ten, daily writes
Later, there is a poet, a memoirist,
A fashionista, a songwriter, a liar,
A love letter writer, a novelist,
And Xena, the inner Princess Warrior.
All fill the blank page with stories
Of a life, mine, and images of ones
Created for the page, the daily write,
The prompt staring the writer in me down, daring
Passions to percolate, unearthing inspiration
To burn up the pages, blazing a trail
To the end of the writing time found every day
In minutes outside of the daily existence
The struggles, the chances taken
The moments lost, agonized over
The writing is why I come to the page
To write is to write is to write
Start and don’t’ stop, not ever.
I think about the writers before us, the ones who didn’t have sexy laptops, Word Press or Blogger. They only had pen and journal, stamps and heavy-bond paper. To love to write, to live to write, and never having an outlet, makes me shudder.
I don’t have a specific word that I love more than any other word; rather my passion is for all words. It’s why I read and write. I know writing is a mystery to some, while to other’s it’s their breath, their second skin, and without it, there is a void so deep life can feel meaningless, without purpose. I write because I write. It’s what I say to non-writers when they ask me why I write.
Are you famous they want to know, do you publish they demand. Do you make money at this folly, the rudely inquire. They tell me I am missing Dancing with the Stars, American Idol, and other pop culture prime time television viewing. Oh my, I whisper under my breath. I’ll go to my grave not knowing who the who was in the Biggest Losers. I feign sadness.
I write, it’s what I do I try to explain. I try to tell them how words can make the difference in a day, can turn stranger into a lover, can leave their imprint on someone’s life, can make the day more than ordinary. If you’re not making money they say, then why bother. I think to myself that they have never read a poem by Emily, the opening paragraph of The Prince of Tides, felt the chill from Poe’s The Raven, or received a letter from a Lover, and for this I am truly saddened.
No, I don’t have a logical explanation why nor can I explain my passion for all words. I don’t try explaining the daily rite of writing. I leave the non-writer to their reality of prime time television viewing and think to myself, they’ve never read, The Long Goodbye, and fallen in love with the language magically woven together by Chandler. I will die without ever writing a description as lush, but knowing I can read his words when I lose inspiration is enough to keep my fingers on the keyboard and off the remote. Writing isn’t explainable and who would understand why I am at peace in my solitary existence
How do you answer the why do you write question?