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On Writing

October 10, 2012

I’ve been blessed that in my darkest hours when I feel desperate and mad and on the edge, I have been able to write. That I have been able to find the joy and love and passion and satisfaction of writing. For depression and I are no strangers; death is not a foreign notion to me. It’s a long story dating back to the mid-nineties. Writing frees me from the walls of this prison I inhabit and from myself, that is, from these physical walls and the mental, emotional, spiritual walls. I am sometimes bereft of this world and my life when I write–maybe I do a bit of vicarious living. But I also have to have a sense of myself and this world when I write. Writing, in many respects, has saved my life. Taking me from this prison, allowing me to express the darkness or joy or whatever it is I am feeling at the moment. Writing transforms my ugly pain into something beautiful. It has saved — is saving — me.


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