So you want to be a writer.

For a long time, the moments I felt most alive were while I was dancing. I started dance lessons as a four-year old, and continued them throughout college. In the midst of movement, I feel a decisive change; I get chills. This still happens when I dance, but I dance less often….time, money, knees — they all hold me back. The only other place I become a conduit for electricity is through writing. Is it any surprise, then, that writing is literally a dancing of letters across a page?

“I can shake off everything as I write. My sorrows disappear; my courage is reborn.” Anne Frank

I write, in essence, to share my experiences. I don’t think for one minute that I’m more thoughtful, or interesting – that I have lived more, loved more than you. I write to sit on it, think on it, until I have ingested and digested and reinvented it all. I write to keep living the things I’ve lived. And to share my experience with you, if you want it. The greatest gifts I’ve received have been entry into another. The feeling that someone is allowing me to know them. This, then, is my attempt at giving that to everyone; just in case it means to them what it means to me. We give what we love. What we want. We give it away and then we horde what we get back and then we do it again.

Some months ago, I picked up a book by Agatha Christie, because I like her name. She died before I was born. I had a knee-jerk response to immediately put it down, because I thought her prose may be too different from that of my time. Would I be able to relate? How quickly I forgot what I know. Nothing is different today than it was yesterday. Only inventions have changed. The human condition remains the same. She speaks directly to me when she says, “Everything that has existed, lingers in the Eternity.”

There are few people’s experiences who I would not be interested in hearing. If you’re telling, I’m listening. I’m curious! I read because I’m curious and I write for the same. How many things I uncover, whilst I’m musing on them. It is the only hold I have on the present – and my only ability to know the past. Things I thought I understood. In digging them back up, I see particles I didn’t see before; I see light and dark where before, stood gray.

All things get in the way of writing. All of my favorite things. Eating, showering, sleeping. The minute I wake, my mind is flooded. Making my coffee, I lose a sentence here, a poem there. It is overwhelming, this feeling like I’m feeding a beast that can’t be satiated. There is always more to say. As long as there is life, there are things to write. Days when I don’t do it at all, I feel as though I’m suffocating. Like I lost something.

This is the means through which I breathe. The time when my body is synced up with my mind, and all my movements make sense. It is not a question and not a statement. It is simply who I am.

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