Why I Write

I wake up like a dimmer switch being slowly rotated brighter until I have to get up with the first two lines of a story bubbling up, begging to be written.  It happens to me often.

I write to let what wells up in me splash on the page.  

I write to remember.  I write to not forget. I write to experience and to share experience.  I write to share hope.  I write to explore.  I write to puzzle out troubles. I write to embrace.  I write to make my heart pound, to stretch my brain for the best word for a taste, feeling, sound.  

And make synapses.   

I write to encourage. I write to challenge my self.  I write to slow down, to enjoy more, to think deeply. I write to challenge others. I write to sort out the craziness in my head.  I write to distil the nectar of life, for you to roll on your tongue and, for the pleasure it gives me in watching you do this.  

I write to order my world.  I write to smell.  I write to share the flavour.  I write for significance.  I write to smooth the jagged edges.  I write to paint aural images.  I write even if it is only me who reads it.  

I write to wash away the grit.   I write for my great Gordon-Setter Rigby, my abiding critic.  I write instead of weeping.  I write instead of sleeping. I write to imagine.  I write to engage.  

I write to feel the texture of living.  I write to sort, process and reorder.  I write to relax.  I write in hope of connecting, touching.

I write because I want to be better.



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