Throwing darts in the dark....

"Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some under culture but mainly to save themselves, to survive."

An octopus whose tentacles were detached in a tragic accident. A cat whose whiskers were singed off when curiosity got the best of him with that sweet smelling candle.

Writing sustains this little soul and allows me to feel my way through the dark.

Sometime in the last few months, I stopped courting writing, however handsome he was to me at one time. I stopped making him dinner. I stopped telling him how dashing he looked in his smile. I allowed him to whither from lack of attention...from neglect.

Shame on me.

There's a scene from a movie where a woman describes the need for a man in a remote village to create a totem pole. She details his conversations about how the creation of the totem pole allowed him to fill a hole in his heart. She admits that she cried when she saw it, standing tall and carefully carved before her.

A visually artistic bone does not exist within my being. I'd force that realization upon my friends and family by taking art classes and sending my "works" across the country to sit atop mantles but...I love everyone too much for that madness.

My totem pole may not be visually striking but striking it is nonetheless. It is my personal belief that we are not given choices as to those things in life with which we are granted the ability to do with great ease. Writing happens to be a choice I was given.

As I sat mesmerized by a new album I acquired this weekend, I almost felt as if I was sitting in my old bedroom in high school. Hours spent listening to music (some good, thanks to the musical tastes of my family. Some, not so good thanks to youth and idiocy). The lyrics were what grabbed me. The words of someone who I never had the opportunity to meet (I'm holding out for a dinner date, Ben) somehow wiggled and wormed their way into my chest and compressed and released.

I read an article recently where the author purely and simply gave an urging to souls floating who felt as though writing were their insides. He said, "Write for no pay. Spill the guts of who you are onto paper or keyboards whenever you can. Tell your story or the story of others as if someone will one day give a shit. It matters. It all matters. What's floating around in there? It has substance because it is. So write without the paycheck and click clack those heels together the day someone offers you one."

Building totem poles one letter at a time.