On Writing

Some people call me a writer.  I love it.  I don’t call myself a writer.  I say “I write.”

I barely take myself seriously as a human, much less a writer.  I’m very serious about being a whiff of light making a brief appearance as a human on planet earth.  What does that even mean?

I know.  I’ll try to explain.

This might sound crazy but I believe every human is born with everything she needs for a beautiful life. How can that be?  No food!  No water!  No education!  No money!  Right.  That baby’s got it all.  I can’t explain any better than that because the truth is…hold on…that baby doesn’t really need her human body.

When my daughters were born, I looked at them and thought…it’s all there.  Just like the whole apple tree and all the apples exist in the apple seed.  It’s all there.  And so, I got very busy tending the soil doing everything I could to make a good and rich place for those seeds to grow and flourish.  My daughters are now beautiful loving and creative adult women and that’s between them and God, as it was from the beginning.

Must I write?  Yes.  So call me a writer or don’t.  It’s all true.

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