“I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient.” – Terry Tempest Williams, “Why I Write”

Inspired by Williams, I wrote this:

I write to convey that which I don’t yet fully understand, to fill in the blanks that wave in front of me, that linger there, that taunt me. I write knowing that I might not fill in all the blanks, that the blanks I do fill in may be wild guesses. I make stuff up sometimes. I try to be true. I write to look for the truth. I dig for hidden treasure, even if all I find are pretty rocks. I write to look for the sun. I write to gather kindling and larger sticks to build a fire — to smell, to dance, to warm my face and hands against, to sit by. I write to live. I write to engage myself with the world, the conscious and the subconscious, the things I know and the stuff I can only intuit. I write to love. I write to envelop. I write to let go. I write to build. I write to make things up. I write to find out more truth than I know on the surface. I write because what else would I do? I write because I find it fascinating. I write because there are rules and no rules. I write to be free. I write to free myself. I write to unclog the stuff between my ears and around my heart and in my lungs. 

Why do you write?