I write as an act of gratitude.
I write to apologize for discovering so late.
I write to go somewhere, I write to go nowhere. I write because it helps me move. Helped me move thousands of miles.
I write with my socks on. I write in a tent with wet, smelly feet.
I write to see thoughts occupy a page.
I write because it provides a perfect blend of control and spontaneity. Not quite like a railcar off its track but more like a car on an unknown South American mountain pass.
I write because I know my frail condition.
I write in anger, the pen driving irrevocable stitches into an innocent page.
I write because of a feeling had while writing a poem about Allen Iverson in fourth grade. I write because that poem sucked and I’ve always been the petulant type who seldom enjoys something he’s not good at, except this time I did.
I write for my 10th grade English teacher. The one who cried when I told her I was transferring. I write because she’ll never know how much it meant for someone to care in a high school of 4,000 students.
I write because it’s rare for anyone to understand on a deeper level than my physical appearance and spoken words.
I write because it doesn’t require someone’s permission.
I write out of insecurity. I write because it’s brave. I write inviting judgment, criticism, or just plain indifference, hoping for the former and usually receiving the latter.
I write to capture a desolate feeling in a Radison Inn somewhere on the West Coast. I write to describe the lump in my throat the next morning. I write to describe a subpar continental breakfast in a dark hotel dining room. I write to one day remember being awake, writing at 5 AM in a strange city on the East Coast.
I write to avoid wasting life on cheap weekend thrills. Vodka, shouting, mediocre dance moves, all that shit I used to love.
I write for the process. No longer do I write for results.
Substance is joy. The essential matter can always be arranged, rearranged.
Experience grows, sensations arrive, words appear.