what it is to Write.

Writing...

To write. To think and then to write. To write without thinking. To write to impress. To write to express. To write to explore. To write to indulge. To write to dream. To write to imagine. To write to...inspire. To think, and to muse, and to ponder in your mind what exactly is the meaning to...write.

To write...or not to write?

To write.

I am a writer. So I write. I must write. But my impish little shoulder Bryce is always whispering, always talking - and it begs the question: Do I write often enough?

Oh, certainly not... But I will. It is the dawn of a new age. A new sky, with miles to roam free - complete with turbulence, hang time, and that tickling sensation we all love so much. A new page. Blank. Open. Gaping wide open. Waiting, just waiting, with its ivory stillness, its glossy sheen that almost taunts, yet virtually begs to be showered upon with words. Words that fall like rain drops when released; words that flow freely when called upon. And I, the writer - I, the cloud - seek to please the earth with cleansing rain. To refresh the world with this inspirational precipitation.

Lately I've been wandering in that stark land of overcommitment I hear is common among teenagers. My wandering has resulted in a persistent, yet dull, drizzle. The rain has been there, yes, but it has lacked wind to drive it sideways. Been missing that mysterious factor that puts the thrill in the storm. But I officially declare a warning: From here on out, it's hurricane season. Draw the storm shutters. Secure the levies - The flood is coming. The storm approaches. The cloudburst, the downpour. There is rain on the horizon. And it whispers of words.

Words. Writing. To write....

Written.

Bryce