I write to make peace with things I cannot control. I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to begin a dialogue. I write to strike a debate. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things differently perhaps the world will change. I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my conscience. I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write myself out of composure. I write against power and for democracy. I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that keep me complacent. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain. I write to propagate love in a world full of hate. I write to dispel inequality. I write for justice.
I write knowing I can be killed by own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by both understanding and misunderstanding. I write out of ignorance. I write out of curiosity. I write past the embarrassment of exposure.
I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know. I write as an act of faith. I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write as an exercise in pure joy. I write out of my anger into my passion. I write from the stillness of night anticipating – always anticipating. I write to listen, I write out of patience. I write to sooth the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around me. I write because I believe in the power of words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left on the sand.
I write because of the humors of our conditions as humans. I write because it belongs to the force of the moon: high tide, low tide. I write because it takes me to places I may have never travelled to in reality. I write with a knife carving each word through generosity of trees. I write because I do not have to speak. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write by grace and grit. I write on the other side of procrastination. I write for the children we never had. I write knowing words always fall short.
I write knowing I can be killed by my own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by both understanding and misunderstanding. I write out of ignorance. I write out of curiosity. I write past the embarrassment of exposure. I keep writing, hopefully suddenly I may be overcome by sheer – indulgences [the madness], meaningless, the ridiculousness, of this list. I trust nothing especially, myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to quit my way down the line, or madly erase draftline, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds, and then realize it doesn’t matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass.
I write because it is danger; a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable, how transient we are. I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.
“A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit” _Richard Batch