I write because I can’t not write I think in sentences Sometimes, even with punctuation. My favourite is ! When I write I am the most myself When I’m not writing My brain tweaks a little bit Just enough to say Get back to it! Connections are made When there are words On a page In the world In a story Or in my brain And I write Because that’s how it works. I’m participating in And Now You Write,…
I spent all day Saturday looking for a particular piece I wrote on September 11th, 2001. I couldn’t find it, but in the search I found all my old journals and other writing that goes back pretty far. Some things are the same. A lot is different. I want to give that kid/younger twenty-something a hug, and tell her to stop worrying. We’re not in Back to the Future, so I can’t. But I can do this: Dear you, Relax. …
I have a confession to make. I hear voices in my head. The voices of characters who don’t know where they’re going because I haven’t finished their stories on the page. I’m responsible for the identity crises of thousands. I get several fake shrink bills in the mail every week. One girl in particular has been stuck in the bathroom for about four months. She’s angry. She was other places to go. Trust me, we’ve had words. My problem (?)…
I’ve been away from the computer for the last few days. Away from the computer, but not without my notebook. I started writing the lines that make up this post while on the train to Glasgow on Thursday. I like trains, and I love writing while in transit. Something about the rhythm of the journey colours the words, knowing that that there will be some sort of evidence of change from beginning to end. I’ve loved notebooks for as long…
