Why I write.

When I was a child, and lived with my Father, I had a stained glass triptych. I used to stare for hours at the kaleidoscopic beams of light that filtered through its tinted panes. I’ve never had or felt a connection to God, or whatever God may be, but the windows of that small bauble enchanted me. I would lay down at night and write stories in my head about the children frozen mid motion atop craggy cliffs and storming skies. I was compelled- either by my own curiosity to test the limits of my adolescent mind or by a force indescribable- to imagine the whole of the panes down to the most minute aspect. From the glow of the children, to the flowing silky robes of the angel, and the organic shapes of the landscapes. I was enthralled.

I write so that I never lose sight of that glow. I write to romanticize my reality, and soften the edges of life. Ive written the stories of friends, families, ghosts of strangers ive seen walk by. I immortalize the moments that pass me by everyday. The woman with the yellow shirt who complimented my hair is now reborn inside the retreats of your imagination. She lives hundreds of lives, with a different yellow shirt, in a different place, saying the same words. That is why I write. I capture the moments that flit by on and on, and I keep them in jars on my shelf. I feed them and water them and let them grow as each new visitor shares space with them. Writing is just as alive as I am, and I am just as alive as my writing. My writing is my grief, my exuberance, my sorrow, my excitement, my hidden secrets. Writing will always be apart of me, and I will always be apart of my Writing.



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