This post, admittedly, is fairly self-indulgent. Thankfully, it is short. It is written primarily as a reminder to me on days when I’m not sure if it’s important to keep writing this blog. If I need to remind myself why I should bother writing, I can return to this post.

I write, not in order to produce or accomplish anything, but to get in touch with my writing self – the creative self that helps me order my thoughts and gives flesh to imagination.

I write because over the decades I’ve created a version of me that remains dormant, embedded in my bones, until I write. This self is never apparent in the result of my writing but in the process of my writing, as if selecting words erects a scaffold over which I build this edifice of person, assembles a skeleton over which I’m prepared to wrap my muscle and skin.

Writing allows me to move through the world in a way that allows my bones to float, opens my throat and lets in air, gives permission for me to wander into wonder and transcend headaches and back pain, finances and work hours, into possibility. Writing allows me to return to that time when there was no distinction between imagination and interpretation of reality and then pull down any vision for the framework of the world I want to live in.

I write because, as difficult as it is, I have found no other process as meaningful to me in my life.

I write in order to become me.