She told us.
free your words. every. day.
I wrote it on a note and taped it to the window above my desk.
I sit here as often as I can, stealing away from the rest of my life to write words. Words that become stories that become novels, sometimes essays, sometimes articles. Variety is the spice, but for me, fiction is the sugar. Writing fiction brightens my interior self like fresh snow coating the earth. A prism of luminosity. Writing fiction fills an otherwise unreachable crevice of my mind. Writing fiction is, at once, the hardest and most doable thing in the world.
Writing is hard because I must do it alone. Artists need solitude. Quiet to hear the echo of emotion. Privacy to create something out of nothing. The words won’t come unless they are called. Like shy girls waiting for the boys to ask. When I write fiction, I am at once the asker and the asked. The seeker and the sought. I can handle humanity, turning it over and over and over again, memorizing all sides like an archaeologist examines a relic. And still, the rock gives only hints of its history. Little by little by little.
Writing is the most doable thing in the world because I have to do it. How else can I explain this? I started my first journal when I was six years-old. Writing is a natural and necessary form of expression for me, for many of us. If I don’t write, I am missing out on myself, on the potential of my unique human experience. The words sound like noise when they’re crowded in my mind, elbowing one another to the finish line.
But there is no finish line for my words. There is only freedom. Sometimes I forget.
When I hit a wall while writing and I start searching for distractions, I see that note and I remember.
free your words
I don’t have time to waste. My time at this desk is limited indeed. This is my chance.
What lives inside of you that needs to be freed?