Office meeting today, or high school classroom then
It’s always been the same,
I look like I’m taking notes back here,
But it’s a masquerade.
Yes, a complete charade,
Because while I pretend to hear what you’re saying,
I’m dumping my guts on a page.
The release of a high-pressure dam, that’s what it feels like to write. Blood runs through to my hands, water flooding out of the gate. Right before the pen hits the page, my heart beats faster. Always that change in rhythm, as if I’m a parched wild animal that’s spotted a watering hole.
If you’re a writer, you’ll understand. It’s felt natural since the beginning. A new experience, and old experience, every day gives you an excuse to play with words, create worlds, and play with reality. When I was in second grade, for instance, I saw snow for the first time. This was the result.
Book in your hand, hope in your heart, these far away imaginary lands fuel this art. Once you experience the power of a few well-placed words, and are awestruck by their beauty, you will never let them go. The writer doesn’t believe herself to be better at it than anyone else, she is simply writing to fulfill a pull that comes from deep within. It’s not like it hasn’t been said before, take Isabel Allende‘s word on it.
And that, my dears, it why I write.
How about you?
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