I write because I think I can live without it, and I do for a time, but then I realize a part of me is dying of thirst.
I write to give voice to the dialogue in my head and to quiet the narrative that walks me through the day.
I write to purge my bitter resentment and therefore maintain my ability to be kind.
I write for all the frustrated artists. I don’t want to be one. I’d be poisonous.
I don’t write because of the dishes, the laundry, the mess, because of my endless proclivity for getting lost on the internet, and because my other writing–the day-job kind–comes so easily and with such a reward.
I don’t write because it feels too self-indulgent.
I don’t write for fear of failure—but more because of fear of success. You see, if this actually begins to yield to me, some vague looming worry may replace my companionable writing-related anxiety. It’s a “what dreams may come” dilemma.
I can’t be such a Hamlet.
So this year, I will write and write, through political and personal melodrama. I will access truth, unobscured by the humor that screens me from the dark places.
I will tap into the fearlessness I use when confronting Sarah Palin, and use it to confront my characters.
I will see myself in the company of my pen-wielding heroines, and I will not shrink away from the mirror.