Member-only story
Sometimes I Write Stuff
Sometimes I write stuff.
Slowly and surely,
words are being formed like diamonds way beneath the surface of my skin.
Time.
The fire in my belly.
And the gentle pressure from me digging deep —
is needed for precious words to take shape,
be rearranged and strung together into stories.
Some stories take shape in days or weeks,
while others will need years before they breathe.
The art is in the details of the language.
This is all I know so far,
practice makes better.
And better is the un-pretty progress that is happening
even when I forget to stop and notice.
I’m still unlearning and learning.
In the meantime,
I teach myself how to write by eating books.
My soul grows, my heart beats and skips as I defy gravity
and fly higher than the moon and her stars.
I am chomping my way through pages and pages —
like a ravenous thing in search of relief from hunger
and the antidote to nothingness —
devouring words that fill up my senses and season my guts.
And time just slips away.
