Everything else is something between writing. It all feeds the Writer. Calms. Humbles. Energizes. At times, it frustrates. For the Writer was born to write. All the other things were other things that mattered at the time. All the other things were something that the Writer tolerated….sometimes impatiently. When you are supposed to be something and that something is like breathing to your soul you should be that something. Other things were times in the dressing booth of a costume shop on what am I to be supposed to be shopping sprees. I am a writer. When I write, I am alive and doing what I was born to do. When I do other things, I am in between writing.
Books are inside of me. Others’ stories waiting to be told. Actually, waiting to be read. Yes, story telling is part of my writing. Yet the words are meant to sail across the universe and dock in minds open and waiting for what they already knew. My words stir thoughts. They stir inside of me, roar out, calm one beast, and whirlwind on to feed the hungry. Passion fruit. Joy seeds. Aha droppings. Simple connections for complex beings.
Short Stories. Poems. Missives. Massives. For the Masses and not so massive. For the small of doubt and large of heart. For people just like me that died a long time ago, struggle to survive now, and wait to be born. Look while I am here and I am here. Look when I am gone and I am here. Eternity begins with a word. I am Word. Word after word is my life sentence. Life is lived on death row and writing is life after death, during death, and greater than death. Till death to us part? Not me. I am a Writer and the word is greater than the sword, the flesh, and the critics who sit on the sideline and complain about my view.
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