Almost ten years ago, I wrote my first novel, Eating Mythos Soup: poemstories for Laura. In this novel there is a passage that I think contains the real truth about why I do what I do. It is as true today as it was ten years ago. I’ve shared it before, and I’m sharing it again. Here it is:
I write because when I do I am alive. I write because without writing I live in the half-light of a dull November day when everyone else is at a birthday party. I write because then I am at the party too. I play with balloons and wear colored streamers in my hair.
I write because the world smells good and the light is so bright and beauty sits like a beating pulsing bursting heart underneath my skin, and if I don’t put it down on paper I bleed from every pore.
I write because my life is important and I want everyone to know that my life began and ended and in between love flowed through me and my spirit danced with God.
I write because every signpost I come to points me back to the writer’s path, even from the depths of the electronic jungle. I write because when I do I feel the soothing aahh begin in my own throat, and I hear it echoed from the throats of my loved ones as they see me finally coming home.
I write the little stories and the big ones, in the voices of bells and heartbeats. They are mythic journeys and frantic dances, humdrum vacations and gala celebrations. They are slow and dangerous, fast and clumsy, sweet and smooth tasting. They knock you flat when you’re not looking.
I write because if I don’t my life is ashes and lice, and a gluey film of dust lies thick over my skin. I write because it is my protection from the vast and awful fear of nothingness; because it is the narrow plank I have laid across the chasm of the Great Void.
I write because a God lives in my pen and my keyboard and my hands. Over my left shoulder I see the air currents swirling around Her. Her immense presence settles around me like a thick warm quilt,, and we are wrapped together snug on a snowy winter day while we watch my genius burn. I feel the warmth on my back growing yellow, and my skin turning peach-brown with the soft smell of joy.
I write because God says.
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