Because Writing Helps 

I love writing because it helps me make sense of my life. It stakes my experiences to the ground where I can examine them and turn them toward the best light. 

Writing brings what’s inside to the outside, and here, memories don’t strangle or mock. They stay imprisoned in sentences I control, now made small by grammar. But if I want to let something free, I make beautiful moments shimmer more, like I’m shaking the glitter of words, enlarging and feathering and leaving a trace in every corner. 

Writing quiets the mind even as it works harder than at any other task in the decision of choosing from millions of possible permutations to craft just one sentence. It’s a gliding and a clawing both. 

Writing is an incarnation, putting flesh to spirit, and a mystery beyond mysteries. It brings thought (how is a thought made?) to articulation to let others know it. 

Writing is arrangement. It’s work that synthesizes and soothes. 

Mostly, it helps me live as me. 

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