What do you do?
I’m a writer, I say.
You must be broke, they say.
Writers don’t make any money, they say.
And look at me with pity gleaming in their eyes like tears.
You must live too much in your head
I don’t live in my head at all.
That’s not what writing is.
Writing is all heart, baby.
It means being a warrior.
Writing is the destruction of thought, the absolute annihilation of expectations and the wild unveiling of our naked spirits.
And I mine for these words, I dive deep for them, I dig into the scariest spaces for these sentences
For they do not always come easily.
I sweat, I howl, I bleed, I laugh, I dance, I cry, I chase, I pray to heaven and hell to find 'em.
For writing is almost never pretty.
It always about getting our hands dirty.
These words will always require me to look deeper than I’ve dared to look yesterday.
As I look, today, as I gaze at the tender lace parts inside,
I am made braver just by looking.
This beautifully uncomfortable practice makes me rich with heart
Dripping wet with word treasures of truth.
And these treasures, they are unbreakable.
But sometimes, I break yesterday’s truth with the hot pain of today.
And get even clearer about what's really real.
Writing means being a warrior.
Writing has little to do with being stuck or fixated with ideas our heads and absolutely everything to do with swimming in the mysterious ruby waters of heart.
It has everything to do with peeling away old sticky layers, like band-aids, seeing the beautiful filth underneath
And showing it to the world
As I cry
As you cry
As we cry gloriously together.
And turn our tears into festering verses of poetry.
Into gorgeous rivers of change.
Into blossoms of practical progress.
Writing is about community.
Overcoming the suffocating limits we thought defined us.
What do you do? They ask.
I am a writer, I say, fire gleaming from my eyes, proudly.
Do you know what that means?
Writing is all about heart, baby.
It means being a warrior.
Because I would die for these words.
Because I have died for them a thousand die.
I die for them everyday
Every day, I dance,
Every day, eviscerating anything that doesn’t belong to my soul,
Anything that is not truth; any tiny morsel of bullsh*t that is not pure spirit.
Coming more alive
Like the sweet fragrance of a hyancinth in the muddy beginnings of early Spring.
Writing to be more alive. To be more human.
I am a writer, I say.
I am a writer.
And I am f*cking proud of it.
I etch these words that pour through me
Like rain, like dirt, like lightning,
Not for fun, not to impress or use fancy vocabulary.
I etch these words
And with myself.
So we can
So we can be
Exactly as cracked-open
And utterly vibrant
As we are meant to be.
I am a writer, I say with fire gleaming proudly in my eyes.
It’s about damn time I owned it.
Write with me.