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12/01 Direct Link
Why do I write?

Öbecause too many times these words felt like the only thing I had.

So, The correct question is: How could I forsake that?

Could I abandon the one thing that has carried me so far? The one thing that has filled up those empty, lonely nights? Could I?

I hate these words. I hate them for ever being all I have. I hate them for being so toothless. Everyone wants to write, and I hate how plain that makes me.

But I have these words, sometimes only these words, and that is why I keep writing.
12/02 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because I am alone. It feels as though I have been alone my whole life. Yes, of course, I know that I have had friends and I have been loved and I have lived my life to the very best of my ability. There is little to regret. But still, in the midst of all of it, I have cried and been alone.

Maybe this is just the existential ache of every human being. No matter how hard we try to bridge the abyss we remain alone inside our own minds.

I write becauseÖ
12/03 Direct Link
Maybe it is normal, but I continue to choose to believe that it is not and that I am not Ė normal. I donít feel that way. I feel like a giant, never-ending gorge stretches out in front of me, and across that gorge is the only path to the rest of human society.

I write because when that gorge is at its most expansive I hope that maybe just maybe writing it down and sending it out into the world will prove that Iím really not alone and that there are people out there who I could feel close to.
12/04 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because I got angry yesterday, and for a brief moment my anger cured all. Gone was the fatigue. Gone was the apathy. Gone was the self-f***ing-hatred. Hallelujah!!

I should be angry. Everyday, everywhere people are making decisions about my life without my consent, while pop-culture programs me to believe that I have nothing important to say. I am neither academic, nor politician nor superstar. I have no right to words.

The more I think about this, the angrier I become. I believe we should all be angry, and that is why I must write.
12/05 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because the world is full of propaganda for the unjust cause of keeping things the way they are. Everywhere I look the mass media is propagating some new model of perfection. Models, models, modelsÖ telling me how to think, to feel, to breathe, how to be my own true self. There are even models for rebellion.

I have purchased those models Ė all of them. I brought them home and looked in the boxes. I am not in there.

But, I deserve a place to be. I have a story. That is why I write.
12/06 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because I need to start writing and never stop for the rest of my life. I have stopped writing so many times in my life and each time it took me another six months or a year to work up to the idea of writing again Ė and the dangerous concept that I just might have something worth saying.

So, if you are out there somewhere writing or doing whatever you do, keep going. Donít lose your momentum. Donít lose your faith. Fight against the voices in the world that claim we cannot be artists.
12/07 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because I AM NOT ALONE.

I have NEVER been alone, NONE of us have. We just happen to reside inside these socially constructed cages, ever burdened by these white walls.

Look. We grow up in little box rooms in little box houses with little box yards, and everything is surrounded by steel wire fences and concrete lines.

We go to big box schools, sit at little square desks. We read parallel lies from rectangular books. And stick figure teachers explain the world.

So, tell me, is it any wonder I forgot how to love?
12/08 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because in these few days since I started writing again I feel so much freer. Every time I pick up a pen or put my fingers to the keyboard is starting to feel like a statement of belief in my own voice. And, I realize now that not writing is also a statement. It says, not so much to the world but to myself, that I donít believe I have anything to say. It makes me smaller, day by day.

Doing nothing is to actively participate in my own oppression. Iím finished with that.
12/09 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because I am not sure that I can do this. I am not sure whether I even have 28 of these in me. And as it happens, there are many roadblocks ahead of me, and I am unsure of my ability to conquer most of them.

This is a stepping stone, a small, daily way of learning to trust my own voice again Ė which I have struggled to do for many years. You see, this is a task of utmost importance. For, if I can conquer this, I can probably conquer just about anything.
12/10 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because I donít know what the hell else to do. I am moving forward, damn it, but there is a bird in my head (pardon the metaphor) and itís not flying away any time soon.

So, forgive me for getting lost in my verbal digressions. Sometimes I just donít know where else to go, so when the day is growing old and all avenues of avian control have been whittled down to waiting (and waiting takes so long!) I come here. If I canít change it, at least I can be honest about it.
12/11 Direct Link
Why do I write?

Because it is not my right to judge, I write. Because there is something holy in each of us that deserves to be expressed, I write. Because this voice is beyond my control, I write, and I write and I write.

I write because something tells me that if I refuse, all that is sacred in me will be lost. Because no matter how doggedly I try to condemn myself, the words and the urge to release them returns, I write, and I will continue to write until the lexicon of my soul is entirely exhausted.
12/12 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because it makes it easier to forgive myself for being who I am.

I write because someday the worst of this will be over, and I will have overcome so many obstacles.

There is so much real estate between here and healing that it makes my heart ache when I lie in bed at night. But I know with my whole soul that someday the scariest devils will be slain, and I write in honor and pre-meditated celebration of that happy day.

Someday I will look back and admire the courage in these words.
12/13 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because it grounds me in my life.

As worldly as I have become, as exciting as my extraordinary life is, it is so extremely easy to forget to find it interesting. Sometimes the demons are so big they block the sun so all I see is what I lack and the need to escape overshadows all else.

Movies, tvÖIt takes a lot to remind myself to stay here because things arenít really so bad or so empty, and if I cannot stand to be in this life, then I have no life at all.
12/14 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because my life is actually pretty interesting. I am 26-years-old and I have lived my life bravely and fiercely to the best of my ability. Without a doubt, I have chosen the road less traveled. In fact, I would like to think that I have blazed my own road.

I am living proof that a messed up, brazenly insecure, quirky, unwanted outsider from Wisconsin can find her own way. It doesnít matter that I make a mess of time, space and relationships everyday. It is enough that I refuse to live a meaningless life.
12/15 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I write because I have a story in my head, and it isnít mine. It isnít even the story of someone I know. It is the idea of a me who could entrance a certain man who doesnít even exist. Why am I more absorbed by tv than by my own life?

I have passed through this feeling before, several times in my life, and I always let it in like a long-lost friend. Now I am old enough to know better, but I still donít know how to push the feeling off.

To be continuedÖ
12/16 Direct Link
Why do I write?

All I can do is endlessly scratch at it, live with it, invite it out to play every sunny or snowy day. I cannot resolve it, dissolve it or dilute it, but I can roll it around in my hands like clay until itís elemental composition unravels in my hands

Öalong with itís every fickle move.

This may take years, but when it is done, I will write it down, word after word after word, spreading itís essence out onto the page, thick like grape jelly.

Every word I write is an effort toward that day.
12/17 Direct Link
Why do I write?

When I write, I trust myself. It is like dancing alone in a room; It is easy to just let go. Experience has taught me that the sentences will come out fine in the end, And probably even make sense. They might even sound beautiful.

But thatís not the point. What matters is that I trust myself, whether or not it turns out all right is not important. I am not even considering that because I trust my own words so effortlessly that nothing can intrude.

I write because I trust, and those moments are precious.
12/18 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I want to change the tone, of my life, of everything. Itís all real and unreal at once, and I believe the story I tell myself like I believe in a life-changing novel, and I still wonder, restlessly, whether my life, too, is but a breathtaking work of fiction.

Or maybe I donít care at all. If I can, every morning for the rest of my life, send into the universe the prayer to be simply who I am, nothing more and nothing less, then I will be ever content Ė and this will be my story.
12/19 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I have unanswerable questions.

Life is getting more comfortable. I donít feel suffocated anymore. I almost even feel exciting again. I am starting to redraw the outline of myself again, and the thought turns my heart to jello.

I have stopped wondering whether I am alone because when I am working, learning, walking and being myself, it mostly doesnít matter..

But, I still wonder where I am going, and what good any of this can do since I will be unable to play the main role in my own dreams Ė when I finally get to them.
12/20 Direct Link
Why do I write?

There are two things I need to say. Everything is beautiful. Life kills the soul.

I donít understand how to reconcile these two truths. They are like jagged puzzle pieces whose contours will never match, and as I fight to press them together I am gouged by their sharp edges.

I am bleeding on the keys.

Often I wonder if there really is an upside to being a person who questions. So many people out there could probably just shrug and let it go, accepting the proverbial truth that pain sweetens joy.

It feels as if
12/21 Direct Link
Why do I write?

I am standing alone over an enormous, unfinished puzzle in which all the big pieces are missing and all the others are foggy around the edges so it is impossible to piece them together.

The biggest puzzle of all to me is whether the pieces really exist. Are there really answers? I donít mean unequivocal answers, like something you would give for a math problem. But is there a something, a piece of clarity, that could tie together the disjointed fabric of my understanding?

And if not, why do I feel so deeply that there is.
12/22 Direct Link
I have dreams, not the overwhelming, lets-make-a-hollywood-movie kind of passionate dreams, but clear dreams, wan and pale and beautiful in their very fragility. These have followed me from a very young age - like clear panes of glass in a small attic window, allowing in a light which fades and peaks depending on the weather outside.

On a clear summer day, at the right hour, I can sit beneath the roof and watch sunlight angle through the glass and spread a soft beam of gold through the dusty air. Sometimes sitting silently, that light is much more than enough.
12/23 Direct Link
Since this month began I have discovered many things, not because of the writing, mind you. I probably would have discovered most, if not all, of these things anyway. But there is something pretty cool about having written it all down.

Itís in my writing, too, the change in me. Maybe itís invisible to an outsider, but thatís really the point. I CAN see. I read back and I can feel the strength, I know exactly how much and how hard I am fighting overcome.

I know. I see. I believe. I am close to taking myself as I am.
12/24 Direct Link
Why I write:

I blame myself for many things that I shouldnít, thinks like wanting to sit alone in a dark room, or feeling just tired enough all the time to disrupt my life but not tired enough to have a treatable disease. I blame myself for almost everything.

I especially blame myself for being such a person of promise with so little to show for it. This silly, uncompleted lifeÖ I blame myself for all of it.

This ďshould-be-perfectĒ existence traps me so far from who I should be, and it must be my fault for ending up here.
12/25 Direct Link
Why do I write:

1. The heroine feels small.
2. To prove otherwise, she sets out on a heroic quest.
3. She fails, feels even more worthless.
4. She tries again to prove her worth.
5. After many years of failure, she realizes with relief that she can only be who she already is.
6. The heroine gives up, goes home and lives happily ever after, completing heroic deeds every day in her small, earnest way.

I am hovering somewhere between steps 4 and 5. Am I ready to move on? Am I ready to be simply who I am?
12/26 Direct Link
It comes and goes. It quivers like broken light. Some days are easy. Some days feel all wrong on my skin. I wind round and round and always end up at the same place. When will I stop this endless circling? When will I find my way out of this maze that childhood built around me? Maybe I never will. Maybe the things we learn early on become so woven into us that they are impossible to remove. Maybe they just become easier to live with, like unfortunate relatives we donít like but learn to love because theyíre always there.
12/27 Direct Link
Because when I sit in front of an empty page or an empty screen the truth comes out. I cannot pretend to be more mature than I am, or even than I was last year. I cannot act like I have it all figured out. If I try to fake it the words just come out all wrong. That is what I love and hate about writing. No matter how hard I try to be something else, or speak in someone elseís voice, I cannot. Itís just me here before this white screen. I love that: ďitís just me here.Ē
12/28 Direct Link
I donít know. After all that I have said and all the reasons I have given, I still donít really know why. There remains something bigger, something indefinable, something close to ďit just feels right.Ē If it didnít feel right I surely would have given up a long time ago because god knows there are enough voices in my head telling me that I am not someone worthy of a voice. I wonít lie and say I donít sometimes believe those voices, either. But writing is just my way of getting things out. It just feels right. It always has.
12/29 Direct Link
Itís getting close to the end of the month, and I am running out of things to say, which makes some sort of sense, really. Iím still not sure I have 31 days of this topic in me, to be honest. And yetÖday after day there is always something more to say. Thatís another thing I love about writing, the element of surprise. I sit down with a pen or at a computer and something comes out. Sometimes it comes quickly in a rush of words, sometimes slowly and unwillingly, but always something comes. What comes is a great surprise.
12/30 Direct Link
A lot changed since I started writing. I am alone even more than I was, but Iím not lonely anymore. I came here to discover belonging, and in some respects did, but what I discovered most of all is the joy of my own company. How ironic this is Ė and how true to life.

I read back through things I wrote and laugh at myself. Oh, how quickly and how slowly a person can change! Itís fun to have this record of my own progress Ė and sometimes, unfortunately, lack thereof. I see things I wouldnít otherwise. I learn about myself.
12/31 Direct Link
In the end it is not my right to question. If I am given words, then I believe I am given them for a reason. It may be only for my own self-reflection, but there is a reason. None of us can know why we are given the gifts we are given. They may sometimes seem more like curses to us than gifts. But that is because we are so quick to judge ourselves so harshly.

It is not our place to judge. It is only our place to use what we are given, perhaps slowly, perhaps awkwardly, always gratefully.