On Writing
Writing used to be my assurance that there’s an internal life. Words are untouchable after all, can’t be unread. I remember the next stage too: a teen looking for proof for brooding, proof of difference. Lines as currency, traded for leave-me-alone. Then I wanted to write for real money, for fame, for companionship: articles and novels, screenplays and plays. My pages were requests for being admitted to a party no one seemed to be hosting.
Now I can’t remember if I can even think, for myself, beyond the things that need to be done. I dream again, at night, which I never do, that’s new; my brain is reclaiming itself, or for the first time, tasting itself, so unfamiliar.
But I have responsibilities now, and a professional voice: what can be said about self, about others, remains unanswered, since only I could answer it.
But I’ll do it, no one should be lost for words. They say you get older, and your body changes, but my words have changed more.