on writing...

Months have passed, years actually, since a single word has left my hand and met a page.

Life has been lived, both the mundane and the extraordinary.  Love has been felt, as well as sorrow. Laughs have been had, tears have been shed.  Stories have unraveled that deserved to be told.  My heart and mind have been at war within me, unable to write what I needed to say. No one missed the words I didn't say.  No one except for me.  Because writing isn't something done for someone else, it is something entirely more selfish.  Writing begins in the writer, for the writer.  For the writer, writing is breathing, a wholly necessary act of living.  And for years now, I have not been living, not fully.  Because the words bottled up within me are making it hard to breathe. 

And so, today I write.  I write for all the moments I have not yet written.  I write to tell a story, to tell my story.  To put feelings of sorrow and laughter and joy and tears into words.  Words that mean nothing to anyone, except for those from whom they came, words that need to be put on page. 

I am a writer.  And I need to breathe.  And so, today, I write. 

"let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences"
Sylvia Plath


  1. Yes. So true. Writing has kept me afloat when the waves were crashing in on me. I wrote that novel because I had to, to breathe.

  2. Yes - glad to see you back! You're a wonderful writer. I always feel better if I write :)


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