I have many answers regarding writing (and reading and editing). But let’s not mistake answers for truth. When it comes to truths I only carry several in my pocket, and they often get misplaced. When I find them again they are completely new things. (And, if I could be so bold, I would suggest being suspect of anyone who claims to have both.)
If someone asks why I write I answer because I love to tangle with language. This above all else is why I write. But the truth is I want to change the past, to change the words I have used or have been used against me.
If someone asks when I write I say at night, when the house is still, quiet, as if language is most alive when there is no language. The truth is writing is a devout and profound attention to the world. It can be done at any time. I am writing while in the shower, shopping for shoes, while talking to you. But not often can I channel myself entire to the world before me. Truth is, often I fail. This is one truth I know will not change and will always rest in my pocket, secure, never lost.
I could write a hundred pages worth of answers; the truth is it wouldn’t say completely what I wanted. The truth is no matter where and what, no matter how much I write, it will never be enough. The world is a rabid excess. And we are lucky not to be consumed.
Writer is where I’ll share various work: links to online publications, both prose and poetry, plus everything between. I’ve gathered them in packages, like gifts, the only way to return all that has been given.