I’ve had these characters floating around my head for more than a year

At first it was like looking at them through frosted glass, but as each day goes by the glass gets clearer, and soon it will thin and become nothing at all


I’ll be able to reach out and touch them;

sit beside them and feel our shared bench shift under their weight;

ask them questions and see the truth of their answers in their eyes, rather than only hearing the words themselves


Soon, I’ll know them – as well as anyone can ever know another

As well as anyone can ever know themselves

(they are, after all, a part of me)

And I won’t have to say, ‘Tell me your story.’

Because it will already be written.

Why do you write?


I write because it makes me feel better. I write because the words I want to express are so much prettier on the page than when they tumble out my mouth, in broken sentences, in the wrong order, and sometimes – often – as the wrong words altogether. I write because sometimes I feel a blank page is the only one in the world that can not only understand me, but just stand me. I write so I don’t forget. I write to make sense of the world. I write because it makes some things last forever and something things disappear and I will never have more power than that in any lifetime. I write because it’s physical, connecting my mind to my arm, my wrist, my fingers that grip this pen. Because I can see words appearing where there were none before, and now they are a tangible thing to be seen, and this gives me the opportunity, when I stop, to step back and see my mind. How strange and beautiful and surprising it can be. And I can remember who I am and why I’m here and that all of the moments up until now have led me to this point. And for that I am grateful. I write because it is a privilege, because I can and I want to and I must. I write because it feels right. I write because it’s the best thing I know how to do. I write because it’s the best thing I have to give back to the world, and I write because I will never tire of finding words to describe the beauty in the bookends of each day.