I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam.....

Why do I write?
Why do I lock myself inside my mind?
Why do I hide from the world around me?
Why do I take myself out of life?

It's no easy thing to ponder, the solitary writer's path that's been chosen. Sometimes, it feels as if we have no control over what decisions we're making-- like the journey has already been laid out for us and there is nothing we do that will alter it....

But, for writers, most writers, some writers--- okay, at least for me as a writer.... I can do nothing other than what I am already doing. Even when I wasn't trying to be a writer, I was writing. Even when I wasn't trying to compose a story, the tale was already writing itself in my sub-conscious. The solitary, writing life might be no easy thing to ponder, but it beats the reality-- that being a writer is a helluva scary thing.... or, it can be, if you really think about it.

Books have the power to change lives. Which means, by extension, writers have the power to change the world.

I don't intend this to be some grand, self-promoting, horn-blowing, "I'm a writer-worship me" kind of statement. I don't lump myself with the future-changing, earth-shaping masters who've carved a path through the mountains. No, I'm more of the socially-acceptable schizophrenic writer who has a thousand voices all screaming for a chance to take center stage.

But, the idea of the world changing as a result of someone's words, that's magical stuff.... magically, powerful stuff....

One thing I will allow myself to "share" with these wonderful molders of humanity, is the plight/curse of every writer--- one can not simply NOT write!

Even when you've chosen to 'grow up' and pursue other career choices, when you've gone to college and chosen never to 'write' another 'story', somehow, the path that was chosen for you will never allow you to stray too far. Suddenly, you have hundreds of poems, fifty short stories and a dozen novel-length manuscripts and no earthly idea where all the crap came from.

A to Z reflections....

Another A to Z challenge comes to an end--- another collection of posts and poetry have been written, another deep breath of relief is released. For my fellow bloggers that survived as well, it's another 'challenge-completed' notch carved into the writing desk. I've come to enjoy my yearly foray into the world of all things alphabetical. This was my third year, though it was only the second year I had a workable theme (which made the challenge substantially easier than the first year I attempted this challenge.) And, though my first year was difficult because my focus was so scattered, I found this year was more difficult because I lost the enthusiasm that came with the first year excitement----excitement which helped me plug along until the end of the challenge. Year 3 was a success in the sense that I completed the challenge, though, this was the year that almost wasn't---- Somewhere about a third of the way through the challenge, I seriously considered...

Bitter Honey

Weaving dreams of beguiling gold, a future's price for happiness. What secrets do you, determined, hold? asks the summer wind's soft caress. A guarded name, a hidden hope. Spinning wheels clutching time, grasping straw that falls away, What dreams may come, we soon may find, won't recall at end of day. A cherished life, a memory lost.

A million lives, beneath a single sky.....

Though our feet leave different prints,our tongues sound different words, there's a mirrored rhythm in the beating of our hearts. Though born in different worlds, our eyes sharpened 'neath different moons, there's an unspoken truth in the warmth of our touch. We may walk in different strides and dream different dreams, we may speak in different voices, maybe swim in different streams. It's plain to see, when dark night falls, as all the stars shine through, that underneath it all, there's no difference 'tween me and you.

From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

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