Friday, October 24, 2008


Sometimes after I have written something, I read it over and over, marveling at how words work into sentences. I’ll spin up a bobbin at my spinning wheel, then go read it again. I will go do errands, coming home to go immediately to my computer to read it one more time. I’ll read it just before going to bed. I’ll wake in the morning to read my piece. I can't get enough of reading my own writing. It’s not an ego thing. It’s love.

I am obsessed and in love with this process called writing. How can it be that I have written something that I can read out loud on Monday morning? How is it that six women will listen as I read this piece that I have read twenty times or more? I can’t believe I have written something that is taken seriously.

I want to run down my street holding the page high to blow in the wind while I shout, “I’ve written a piece!”

Why am I so passionate about putting pen to paper? Life becomes immediate when I write. The world is right there at the tip of my pen. I feel such acuteness. I never realized, until I started writing, that words are like colors with hues and tones. With the stroke of a pen one can speak quietly… whisper, or shout, scream, rage, laugh, cry, love, the possibilities are endless. That is what gives me the passion – the endless possibilities, the ever expanding universe of writing.


1 comment:

A Week's Worth of Women said...

I know this feeling. I am thrilled to share this with you. I am glad that you put it to paper. annette.