On Literary Intimacy
Since before I could write, I've always had some sort of writing implement in my hand - pencil, pen, crayon. Drawing and writing are like breathing. There's magic in the scratch of the pen across an empty page and something sacred in the flow of spirit through the ink. Yes, the modern world has added a keyboard to the tool chest, but I must confess that much of what ends up inkless with me started out with that traditional magic of handwritten script. So, decades have passed with gallons of ideas poured out on paper- stories, notes, poems, letters, journals. Everything from shopping lists to love letters have made their way through my pen, and I've created whole worlds full of joy and anguish to satisfy that part of me that needs to write. I've heard it said before that a writer can't not write, and as clumsy as that sounds, it's completely true. Shutting off that valve just isn't an option. So, where does that undeniable urge lead me today? The answer, as i...