A Reason to Write

This is a kind of boring, navel-gazing post.  Take my advice and skip it.

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What do you read my Lord?  Words, words, words.

Of all the reasons I have not to write – and they are legion –  stinginess often rises to the top of the list.  As if words were precious or rare.  As if ideas and thoughts are finite.

Words are not fragile, delicate things that must be cased in packing peanuts and bubblewrap, bestowed only begrudgingly on the most worthy.

Words are not like cake, though I have had occasionally to eat them.  The more I say, the more I have to say.  Even better, the more I express, the better I am at refining the thought behind the expression, making clearer to myself what I really believe –

because I don’t have anything figured out.  I think out loud.  And if I write something down it sounds as if I know it for a fact, but it’s just a thought.  and thoughts can change.

Readers like writers who have it figured out.  But that kind of certainty is an illusion.  What you think you know today changes tomorrow anyway.  There are very few immutables.  Yes, I did just nounify an adjective.

I am writing to write.  It is an end in itself.  I don’t need an audience, I don’t need to monetize; I only need to scream into the ether and let the words fall where they may

and if they fall on ears that can hear I am blessed.