In Inner Slider, What's New, Writing

I often find myself frustrated that I don’t write more.  Words swirl inside my head constantly, wanting to be written down, stories, plots, insights, ideas.  I’m sure they’re more legendary in my brain that they’d be if they ever got down on the page, but still it’s a haunting feeling of fleeting moments and things about to be lost.  It’s wonderful and yet a pretty handy way of tormenting oneself too.  If you want to write, every minute you’re not writing you’re narrating in your head what you would be writing, so every moment is a scene of a novel lost, a witty passage of a memoir that will never be written.  The day is a march of all the unwritten words.

This morning, with tons to do and no energy to do any of it, this is what wanted to be written, with no meter or rhythm or even complete thoughts:


I write because…

 The rain
Because the moments shimmer.
Because the voice that narrates the walk by the refrigerator, analyzing, studying, critiquing, recording.
I write because love and because hypocrisy and because the brain and because memories fall like yellowed leaves.
I write because I want to scream, to sing, to coo, to giggle, to rage.
I write because all throughout me and within me a voice lilts and says:
I write because
Because I write.
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