I remember now why I write.

I write when I hurt and am not heard. When no one is willing to shut up long enough to listen, learn and resolve conflict or misunderstandings.

When I’m faced with a pain too huge to keep inside and an ego unwilling to make room for my words…I write.

When my fury is great and my compassion feeble…I write.

When I love too intensely and desire too strongly…I write.

It has saved me from screaming, committing unforgivable offenses and losing my pride and dignity.

It has, thus far, kept me sane.

I think writing is a secret super power given to those of us who feel everything more intensely than the rest of the world. Those of us who throw ourselves on the sword of “I love you” while others are cautiously pondering their options. The brave and foolish willing to drive thousands of miles on the power of a dream while the world shakes it’s head in disbelief.

We are the ones who turn sorrow into song, and pain into poetry. We say the words you can’t find and are too afraid to speak aloud.

Writing is the magic that changes the writer and the reader by challenging the truth of what is to transform us into a better reality, a stronger wiser self.

There are those of us who were or are charlatans; writers of beautiful words that we weren’t or aren’t strong enough to walk in.

I was one of them.

It hurts me to recognize those who still are, but as it did with me, sometime the magic has to build longer and stronger to be effective.

I’m grateful for the power of the words and their magic. I honor those who allow it to change them.

I remember now why I write.