I was asked, the other day, what I would write about if someone were paying me to do it.
Uhm whatever they want me to write about, though?
I want to write about how love isn’t what they say it is or even what we think it is. I want to write fairy tales, because they are bits of raw truth in shiny wrapped magic. I want to write about that hurt that will not heal no matter how big my heart grows or how happy I become. I want to write about the trudge of chronic illness and the intimacy I learned to have with myself, even as I hated my body and wept over my nearly spent soul. I want to write about dragons. I want to write my friendships and my enemies and my shitastic job that I had to quit even though losing it nearly killed me. I want to write about people who lie all up in my personal business and the insidiousness of certain falsehoods. I want to write about trust and definitely not compare it to an orchid and be fired from writing forever but maybe just a little bit compare it to an orchid because it is fragile and specific like one and also wild and unruly and vibrant and full like one.
And I do write those things. (Or, I mostly try.)
The things I want to write get written because they must.
I wasn’t a writer. I am a violinist.
But, I write because if I don’t, articulation haunts me in the quiet almost light of pre-morning life. Because if I don’t, communication runs sour and leaves me wanting less, not just out of connection with you or myself, but out of anyone and everything. I write because even when my life cries sonatas and sighs showpieces and chortles overtures, I want to paint a scene with a narrative that rests in my eyes with quirky verbs and under my fingers with smirking adjectives. I want poetry in all its graces, its every rhythm, and if music is tired — or I am tired because of it — then words will help.
I wasn’t a writer.
But, I’m getting there.