I write because I am mad or sad
Because I am in love
Because I see a wonderful image and want to capture it
Because some part of me deep inside has something to say
I have a story to tell
No one will listen or I can’t talk bout it
But I want to be heard
If I don’t write, a part of me will decay; simply go away
I write because something turns me on
The wind taps and sighs upon the glass waiting for reply, and I must
To keep from drowning in a tear filled pool of pain
I write
To find and face the scary truth
To reflect on my mind and emotions
To improve my writing and my bank of words,
So that I can find the word I am looking for when I need it
Because it gives me a sense of power
To freeze time; defy it
To exile to another dimension created by me for me
Because I can
Because I Benjamin Franklin, Frederick Douglass and Henry David Thoreau did
To leave tracks, a trail, a path in the wilderness upon which some other traveler might pick up my scent and explore where I’ve been and why I wrote.
So that when I die, some part of me will live throughout the ages echoing my time here.
Marina Pickett
November 2004