Why I Write (part 1)

 
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Shortly after moving to Austin, I began taking writing classes to tell my story well. These were some pieces I wrote early in the process from prompts given in class

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My adequately spacious desk holds my large desktop computer, a few pens and my notebooks. It sits in the corner of my bedroom facing the window. I have a bulletin board on the wall, a cup of coffee beside me and the dog bed on the floor. My bed is made and the room is free of clutter.

I sit facing the window in my comfy chair overlooking Lake Austin. As I turn on my Mac it rings out the opening chord of Prince’s Let’s Go Crazy and I am reminded, “Beloved, we are gathered here to give to this thing called Life.”

Light snacks and grapes sit beside me eliminating my need to go off in search or sit there wishing I would. Gigi lays beside me and I gaze at the pictures of Lori and our life together. There are also other photos of people I love and notes to remind me of ideas I want to build and connect. The gentle sounds of the crashing waves being piped in remind me of the many beach vacations we took together and I am transported into my story.

I write about her fears and the way she worked to help others overcome them.

I write to her.

I write to the her in everyone.

I write to myself.

 
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I have been writing about her since I began to take stab at this, the writer’s life, but I now realize I’m in love with Story. Truth be told, I think I always was.

She’s always been there, a mistress as old as time yet as young and playful as an innocent child. I ease drop on others as they whisper about her, describing the adventures she has led them on, how she has hurt them, made them sad, or angry or afraid. I know she gossips. I know she overshares. And when she finally does keep a secret, it is only to hold on to it until such a time that spilling the beans will cause others to never forget it. She’s a frenemy to all. Everyone should hate her, yet so very few do.

Man after man, woman after woman come back to her repeatedly asking her to dance, or walk by the lake, or sit at a dark table with candlelight drinking glass after glass of Pinot Noir. 

All those before have had their turn, but I dare to think she might fancy me now. She seems to sense that I too am a little older, a little wiser, yet I too can live with the hope and wonder and whimsy of a little boy. I find the good, no matter how buried.  

So for now, I will finish this chapter. But soon, I will make my move. For now, I will bide my time. I will watch her and dream about her.  And one day soon, I will open my notebook up to a blank page and begin anew.

I need not fear what will happen to me, because the author is I.