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Why Write?

I felt a shudder occasionally. It became more frequent. Increasingly there’s a voice, words, “It’s time to write.” I have something to do: something that will chip away at the rules I’ve lived by; the nice girl I’ve been; the conventional woman I became somehow. It hammers at me and at the dreams and plans I made. I have a story to tell, to live.

This story may not be so irresistible to the world. I may not be the most agile dancer, or the most exquisite vessel. It’s not a slick story of passions fueling young minds, bad-turned-good-against-all-odds, soldiering on in the wake of disapproval and ridicule, ironic, confessional or whatever the fashion bears and bares. No empires built and commerce rewarded. Neither mastery nor exceptionalism. Just dank, unknown, unquantified murmurings. It wants to be born from me as though the world cannot wait. As though I cannot wait.

I have a story to tell. Let me tell it, even though I don’t know what I am doing or how to do it. I’ll birth it instead of locking myself away again, under some man, some list of responsibilities and endless tasks I would start to keep me safely anchored in the world. The danger isn’t drowning in it. The danger is drowning it inside me.

I push away lovely distractors, knowing that there will be times I wonder why. I’ll wonder what I gave up and regret it. I had my reasons: good, sound reasons and however readily I forget them, they were there. Ok?

I hear my boiling heart that drank deeply from new streams and seasons, with letters and feathers, with stones and stage. Thank you witness–never mind the streaks of blood, too many adjectives tumbling my short body over and spilling my skirts all around me, naked for everybody and nobody to see. I still might be free for a bit and this is what I’ve got.