After all these years of chronicling life in words, of mad scribbling, of writing myself back to sanity and serenity, after all this time composing worlds and wonders, fables and fantasies with the strokes of my pen, it is hard not to feel patronized when someone tells me to ‘just write’.
What do you know of writing?
What do you know about the power of words?
Nobody is privy to what has transpired between me and the pages of my journal, several hundred notebooks, sheets and scraps of paper, and even table napkins, old bills and bits of newspaper, when inspiration struck at odd times and places.
I have made love with words, spewed hate with them. I have grappled with grief, loss and my sense of self in odd, unfinished sentences, and then made my peace with life in lush stanzas and lines.
Writing is healing. Writing is pure magic.
It comes to me in sudden, unruly bursts.
I’m grateful for each one. I’m blessed.