Why do I write?

Why do I write?

Trying to answer that question is like trying to define love.

How do you put a feeling into words? Why do you love anything?

You feel something strongly... but what is that feeling? And where does it come from? Out of the blue? Or like a gentle wave that gains momentum and strength as it approaches the shore?

You see words appear on the page beneath your pen, and your heart melts.

You open a journal to a blank page, and something stirs inside you.

Just holding a pen in your hand sends a shiver up your spine.

You are where you belong.

Doing what you were born to do.

Who knows why this and not that--writing instead of drawing or playing an instrument, adding numbers, parsing the law, whatever.

Maybe it's not something to question, just something to accept.

A part of your identity as much as your fingerprint or the features on your face or the sound of your voice.

You write because you can.

Because there's nothing else that lets you be yourself in the same way... without pretending, without needing to wear a mask.

There's no hiding from yourself on the page. No barrier (except for your own limitations and talent) to keep you from seeing (being) yourself.

With each word you come closer to the truth of who you are, and, in the process of putting words on paper, you discover who you might become.

Each word is a gift into the nature of being you.

Where are you going

Where are you going

and how do you know

you're on the right path?

What are the signposts 

you look for?

How can you see a turn

coming in the fog?

Who is walking with you?

Why are you making this

journey anyway?

Whose voice do you hear

encouraging you to keep

going?

Whose voice do you hear

telling you to stop

before you hurt

yourself?

What is worth the risk

of venturing into the unknown?

How do you protect yourself?

How do you reach further

than your ever thought

you could reach? 

Where does the path end?

(And where does it begin?)

And can you rest along the way

or do you have to keep going?

And where does the path lead?

And how much farther do you

have to go?

Is anyone listening or are you

here alone in the fog?

How far does your voice carry?

Can you hear an echo?

A call in response?

What comes next?

Where are you going

and how do you know

you're on the right path?

Where do you go from here?

Where do you go 

from here? How do you 

know which path to take?

What if you can't see a path 

yet? How do you know how

to carve a new one?

Where does this knowledge

come from? When did you learn

to have faith in yourself

so you could dive into

the unknown

thinking--

believing--

you could discover

pearls hidden beneath 

the surface?

Pearls that you find on occasion, 

not every time you dive,

yet you keep diving

keep hoping  

you'll find more 

waiting for you 

by the time 

you reach the bottom 

of the page? 

How writing works for me

This is how writing works for me.

I start writing. 

I don't have a plan. 

I simply start with whatever is given to me. 

A question. A thought. A memory. 

And I see where it leads. 

It's like stepping into the unknown, following a dark path without a flashlight.

It's like stepping off the edge of a cliff, unsure if I can fly--thinking I can't fly--but stepping into the air anyway, urged by some inner compulsion to test gravity and the rules of the universe.

The words that come from my pen onto the page serve as wings. They keep me aloft. They're like a bridge taking me from one thought to another across the dark chasm of unknowing.

I never know before stepping into the void whether I'll fly, whether I'll make it to the other side without falling into the mire.

Maybe that's one of the reasons I keep taking that step: curious to see what happens, wanting to know if I can still fly, or just wondering where the step will take me today. 

Each day is different. I see the world differently each day.

Yet each day is the same: the fear and doubts never go away. 

What am I doing? Why am I doing it? 

Questions and more questions. 

A blank page. 

A pen in hand. 

How will I answer these questions today? 

Where will the path lead? 

And will I have the courage to carve a new path out of the silence, to follow wherever it leads?

Sometimes I need to slow down, to put my pen away, to take the moments in the morning that I'd spend writing to think instead or read or just watch as thoughts drift by like clouds that pass... 

Sometimes I'll simply hold my pen, not writing, wanting to regain my strength and faith in the process of writing. 

It's the process of writing each day that gives me the chance to discover what I need to say. 

Early Morning Reflections

Excerpts from a recent journal entry:

Up early -- 5:45 am. Still groggy from sleep.

Yesterday I started typing the historical fiction novel that I've spent the past month writing by hand. Just typing, no edits. Re-reading the story. That's all.

As I write this morning, I ask what's the purpose of this journal keeping? Is it a record of what I do? A kind of superficial summary of my life--did this, did that? Or is it something else? A way of noticing the world around me--details, incidents, comments on beauty or tragedy? Not sure. Just not sure.

I want to keep writing, but does that mean keeping a journal? Every day entries or just when I feel prompted to add something?

It feels like I'm at the edge of something and I've pushed myself as far as I can push, and the only thing left to do is take a leap into the unknown. And I keep looking into the darkness wondering how to keep going, not sure it's time to leap or if I can survive another jump, not even sure I can let go of the edge of wherever I am.

In some ways we don't get a choice. Each day we have to step into the unknown of a new day. No one knows what the next hour, never mind the next 24 hours, will bring.

It's the same on the page. I never know what the next page will look like until I start writing. I guess some writers have a plan in mind, can see a story and leap into that story. Others only find the story after letting go and leaping.

Do my words and stories matter to anyone besides myself? Why should they? Maybe the question is: how can I make my words matter? How can I write a story that matters to a stranger? What qualities does such a story require in order to matter?

In this sense, words are not value-neutral. Each word matters. Either it takes the reader into the story or it takes the reader out of the story.

How do you know when you have chosen the "right" word?