Why I Write

Why I Write
By Talia Goodman


       Sometimes I wish I could be the ocean spray on a chilly winter night
aboard a Norseman vessel, or the chilling irony of a cold granite
prison wall or the lilting jabber of a peaceful ocean-grass prairie.
       Sometimes I wish I could be Man.
       But the sad fact is, most of the time I'm more like some
“Evolution-gone-awry” fish monster, heaving myself out of the ocean,
chocking and reaching desperately for that ever sought after imagery
on the far end of the shore. This is simply how it feels to write
sometimes. At that point I usually close my computer and watch some
TV.
       Sometimes I dream that I am a sky spirit, light-footed, leaping from
cloud to cloud with steaming words in my mouth, ready to pop out a
dieing prince over there, an iron-hearted sailor over here, or maybe a
tragic romance about a dieing prince who really just wants to be
iron-hearted sailor.
       But most of the time I'm just a dirty mutt trying to climb up a
cliff. I stand at the bottom, whimpering and running in circles, but
never actually get anything done.
       Sometimes I imagine I am god,
       stepping from world to world on giant pencil-shaped stilts as long as
the earth itself, etching my stories upon the ground I walk.
       But usually I'm just a girl sitting cross legged on the ground,
staring out at the ocean and trying to look like I'm thinking about
something really deep.
       I write because I dream that someday, every idle scribble I put down
on paper will be worshiped by the common man, and with every flick of
my hair another magnum opus will be born.
       Usually I just feel like a choking fish, but every once in awhile,
when I write, the words flow from my mouth, tasting of a rich pure
cream, and I'll think I almost, just for a moment, felt that godliness
that comes with the utter power of creation.
       And that is why I write.