Someone recently asked me why I write. After a moment of surprise at their curiosity, I replied that I write to live. I struggle to get words down as quickly as the sentences form. I bargain with myself: Do the laundry now, write later. I don’t always give my own passages high marks but I don’t seem to control them. They just flow. Most of the time, I do not edit; I send my words into the atmosphere and turn to the next effort.
I see my writing as a reflection of the world around me. I hope that I do justice to the light source once in a while. Certainly, I have good role models for that endeavor: Excellent writers but also phenomenal reflectors, such as the December moon over the California Delta last night.
It’s the thirtieth day of the eighty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.