“Pick up something and write.  Use a fountain pen with ink from a bottle.  Write a few words on the back of a postcard.  ‘Wish you were here. Miss you.  Love you.’   Write notes telling people what it means to have them in your life.  Write a lot or a little.  Write a poem that rhymes and one that doesn’t.  Write scathing, seething diatribes and never send them.  Write a one-act play.  Write your grocery list in a beautiful script.  Write a note and leave it in a public place where who knows who will find it.  Write to a woman you haven’t talked to in twenty years.  Don’t apologize, just write.  Write from the core.  Don’t worry about grammar, don’t worry about form.  Write how it felt when you go the news, how your feet were melting in the floor, how you turned into a butterfly clinging to the underside of a branch in a hailstorm.  Let the words tumble out, upside down, spilling across a scrap of paper you pulled out of the recycling box.  Get up like a woman and write.”  ~ Rachel Snyder

To write.  Each day I pull out a notebook, of which I have many, and jot down whatever is on my mind.  I have often referred to this process as dumping; mainly because it is simply me dumping out all of the thoughts, ideas, worries, applause, and wonder I have wandering around inside of me.  Out onto the paper they roll; some will grab hold and others will escape the page, but I pour them all out just the same.  Those that take hold will be revisited and scrutinized at a later date, and the escapees will be gathered up and put aside until there is a place for them between the covers of my journal.

I love to write, I do it every day.  Some would say that keeping journals or writing blogs is an exercise in futility, and I am inclined to believe them; the chances of someone ever reading the words is slim to none.  Nevertheless, I do it; every day.  It’s not a chore or a burden, it is a passion that I indulge in as a means of keeping my balance while continually teetering through life.  It doesn’t solve all of my problems or allay all of my fears, but it brings me closer to center.   It is better than therapy, better than booze; I would say it’s better than sex, but I would be lying.  It is a selfish activity, but only if you consider catharsis to be selfish.

People write for all kinds of reasons, and every one of those reasons is valid.  I write to keep myself right; it’s as simple as that.


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