why write?

Blogging requires some effort, apparently. I’ve been thinking all week (yeah, it’s been a week) about what I might write about next, and I’ve yet to actually sign on and type anything. Til now. So many relevant topics. Relevant to me, that is. Maybe not to other people. But again, this is my space. If anyone else wants to hang out here, that’s great, but I gotta make it work for me. My own little corner to rant and be self-indulgent so I don’t inflict that on -- and alienate -- the rest of the world.

So, topics. What do I feel strongly about? Right now I feel strongly happy that the sun is setting later and later in the afternoon. I feel strongly worried about teenagers who make stupid decisions and don’t understand consequences. I feel strongly sympathetic for people who die young, and for the friends who are left behind to grieve and try to make sense of it all. I feel strongly nostalgic about the idea of a little girl -- a young lady, really -- dressing up like a princess for a big date with the coolest guy in the world: her dad!

My head spins sometimes and I wish I could write as fast as I think. I wish I could just pour it all out onto a piece of paper or a computer screen and then put it together later, spruce it up to make sense. Like creating a work of art from a big old block of stone or lump of clay. But when I finally do get that pen in my hand, or make it to the keyboard, the words seem to fade or meld into each other, the idea still there but the words lost. Kind of like the way a dog thinks. In ideas. You know, there aren’t words running through his head, like, “I’m hungry. Feed me, please,” or “I really gotta go out.” But those thoughts are there, the idea of an empty belly or a full bladder, and they need to be addressed NOW! So he stares at you in that way, or barks to get your attention, and you know exactly what he means, what he needs.

I wish I could just give someone a look to convey the way I feel about those sunsets, or those teenagers, or those grieving friends and excited daughters. Words don’t do it. I’m a writer, and I love words, but I know that sometimes they’re just not enough. Or maybe they’re too much.