I write mostly because I have to. I’ve always loved order, and writing is the way I find it in the messy world of emotions, relationships, and dreams. I write to be known to myself; to study the parts that are hard to reach, until, reluctantly, they begin to come into view. How accurate these parts are remains to be seen, but they are precious to me, because by them, I understand.
But sometimes, I lift my pen to write, only to find my hand and heart empty. I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said.
It is during these times that I look to my many friends, whose stories and complexities are written down entirely. They welcome me, and speak to me, to those parts of my soul which are muddled so I can’t get a clear view, and they slowly sort them out. These are the books that have changed me, shaped me, and whispered to my soul. They have watered a barren land and calmed a turbulent storm. They have cultivated hopes and dreams, and given knowledge of sorrow and loss. They have found their way to me through blissful accident or required reading, but they have each made their mark.
Whether they will have the same effect on another, I cannot say. I only know that they are dear to me, and I suppose, for this post, that will have to be enough.