Remembering Why I Write (A Letter)
Amanda,
Seven years ago you were lost. Recovering from a manic episode that left you unmoored, you wandered into a room where people were reading poetry.
And remembered who you were, and could be again.
Poetry was an anchor, holding you still enough to retrace the route. And find your way home.
Writing has never paid your bills but it has given you a voice and a way to connect with others. To share your experiences, humor, research, and interests. And to provide an outlet for your absurdly overactive imagination.
The past few years may have decreased your creative output, but that’s ok. Between lost friendships, new employment, political turmoil, and a worldwide pandemic it’s time itself that feels unmoored now.
You have kept active with research articles, essays, and helping young creatives publish their work. Nurturing other voices has proved to be its own sustenance.
Recently, under a stack of papers, you found the book you first took to open mics. A mess of sticky notes and sidenotes. The stories of some pages hidden behind drawings you did of the people on stage. A reminder of why you do this.
A map home.
