Hello all,
This post is about writing but what it’s really about is passion. We all have something that we cannot live without (if not several things). I love to do a lot of things, but  my relationship to this craft is bigger than that.
My life without words would be empty—writing sustains me and has made me who I am today. This is more than loving something. This is being made of something. This is surviving because of something. I hope sincerely that all of you feel this way about whatever it is that you do, and I hope you do it all the time.

Without further ado…Enjoy!


Somebody asked me yesterday,

“So you write for fun?”


I write the way you breathe.

It’s involuntary.

It’s a bodily response to stimuli, stimuli being


Rainy day


Curve of a shoulder

Delicate secret tuck of hip.

But so much more than that too

Isn’t it?



I hear God in a pen’s scratch

And  find love

In the




lined paper.

I wish I could  explain that sometimes I think I would die without this

Without words

I am afraid, so afraid of who I would be without a pen in my hand, without my fingers


on a keyboard to tell me where I belong

To say



Here you are.

I recognize myself in my words

That’s me,  there she is, I found her.

Because sometimes I wake up in the morning and my reflection in the mirror looks unfamiliar

My hair parts to the right at night, while I sleep

Moved I guess by unconscious dream fingers

And then in the morning my symmetry is reversed and the world feels flipped on its head,

Like standing up too fast.

And the only way it ever looks right again is

To write it all down.

So  I guess

You could say I write for


I write for


This is my stasis.

Aristotle wrote about the idea of final cause.

He believed that all things had a purpose and a place and we would get there, somehow.

This is my final cause.

Midnight on a Thursday,

Listening to the whirr of the fan and the soft beat of my own heart telling me I exist, yes

I think therefore I am,

I write.
I write, therefore


I must be

Yes, yes.

I am.

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