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You are here: Home / splices of life / Why I Write

Why I Write

November 29, 2019

After the last “I love you” has been whispered and the final child tucked in – for the fourth time, I move towards my favorite space. Held up by thirsty theologians, I bide my time for a few more moments. 

Then, it is well.

I pad down the furry steps and move swiftly to the floral chair by the arched window. The one that will announce the first light of dawn in just a few short hours. 

To my left is a grey table, tastefully paired with a thrift store find. The chairback is whicker. The frame is teal. 

I pull the string of my faithful friend. It groans – as if it might break off. But it never does. Lighting my path, my fingers peruse the spines of books; all standing tall in hopes I might call on them next. 

Orange. Brown. Blue. White. 

Fiction. Self-help. Memoir. Reference. 

Not tonight, I smile. Tonight is for creating. 

For I am a whimsy-chaser. A left-handed scribe. A framer of memories. 

There’s coffee brewing. The roasted hazelnut beans dance across the room calling me to the kitchen. 

But only for a moment. 

Sinking back down into my comfy cave, I crack open my journal. 

Pen strategically placed, I pause. 

I look up and to my left. 

Framed as a constant reminder Eliot sings over me:

Next year’s words await another voice.

I respond. 

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