Why We Write

The one really for sure thing I can say about myself: you get what you see. I don't pretend to be much of anything to anyone. I lay it on the line. Like a homeless man with his "collections" in front of him on the sidewalk, I just pretty much let people see the odds and ends, let 'em pick and choose. I have faults and vices and good qualities like everyone does, but I generally wear my icky stuff like a bumper sticker: all out there for everyone to see.

I have nothing to hide and also, I find hiding, ummmm.... kind of boring. At least it is for me: I am a teller and I like telling. I get bored being all alone with my thoughts.

Heart on the sleeve? Yes, that's where I wear it, but it's bloodied and funny and sweet and woozy and wounded and thinky and wait? Is that what you meant, when you said "how are you" or "who are you?"  

That's my pulsing heart out there, right there in front of you on the sidewalk or the bar top or the dinner table -- on this screen. There it is. Nothing different. I write a few words on one tiny page and there's my heart too: beating and sometimes bleeding out. 

I write a few words. You write them too.

Love is essentially about getting to know every weird and difficult and confusing piece of another person and sticking around and showing up. This weird, shaky, boundary-less neighborhood of ours, this virtual 'hood we live in?  We get to be more supportive and more loving through every uninhibited word we write. Right?

Send your best to Laggin and prove me right. Well... Write.