"Come on, give us a smile."
I sat on the pink velvet love seat in Jay Cee's office, holding a paper rose and facing the magazine photographer....I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week....
"Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem."
—Plath, Sylvia. Bell Jar. New York, N.Y: Harper and Row, 1971. Photo Back Cover
Why I Write
I was not born a writer. I write because I am a lover of words. I like to breathe life and meaning into these symbols of thought. I want to lift the word from the mind or page, give it air to make a sound, then shape and mold it into meaning.
I write because the writing of others has been such a strong influence in my own life. So many times the words of Rilke, Whitman, Peck, Campbell, Gibran, Piercy, Oliver, Miller et al. have guided me through the dark moments in my life when no light or exit was visible.
The written word encouraged me to take a chance, to jump into the abyss, to follow my heart when "judgment" would have me remain steadfast and safe. The written word told of others who made the journey before me while encouraging me to create my own path.
I write in order to define my vision. To lead me to the center. The center of nowhere from where my orientation to this life begins and ends. If what I write touches an emotion, a feeling, or in someway stimulates the intellect, if the reader remembers why he/she is here, then my words were of some value to another. So much hope is shouldered upon the written word.
I write because my heart needs a voice and although my heart communicates best in silence, silence is not a language which easily conveys to others what I want to say, unless they too, are of this nature.
I write because when I pen a poem or complete an essay, like Sylvia in the attached photo, I smile all over.