Was given 8 questions not too long ago about my writing and what it means to me and other things.

Got me thinking.

Even in the midst of the chaos that swirls about me, writing has always been a life line. When I ignore it, when I treat it like a mistress, when I fall in love with it like the first time over and over and over again… It never does me wrong. It is always there to mark my existence, my presence, that I’ve mattered, that I matter, that I have something to say.

Writing challenges me and wants better of me and for me. If only I would listen to it long enough and not be afraid of all the corners it has to show me, all the corners I am afraid will swallow me, that it knows won’t harm me.

And when I am exhausted, (like tonight) having given my everything to these black words on white paper, these words that have no end… It’s there I find mySelf and all the things I never knew I needed.

Yes, I write. But more often than not, writing Writes Me.