My days are consumed by the one need to name moment to moment – enfleshing the world into words so that they may be turned
in my hand, in my palm, and what it is that sits in my heart,
can sit in my hand instead, and be thrown away into the sea;
or kept in my pocket as keepsake. I walk the seashore of life
and decide which rocks to keep, which to discard, which to put
away so that I may mix and match at some later date; call upon
a memory to authenticate a point; call upon a look I hit upon
to explain character motivation; always, always keeping score.
I've always wanted to say that... but she found the words
first and wove them together more beautifully than I ever could.
I think writing is like that. Weaving words like pieces of thread
into a mat or a blanket or maybe even a sweater, each stitch done
by hand, and always, carefully so. Anything that's woven by hand
is unique. Anything anybody writes will always be unique. Even if
you use the same words, follow the same stitching patterns...
So maybe, that's why I write. I fancy myself a weaver. Making
something tangible out of my warbled thoughts. Making pieces of
fiction my reality by writing down words. Hoping someone can feel
comfort or warmth from this blanket of words that I wove.
note: this post is a response to michee's 'why i write' post