A Writing Manifesto

I don't want to be here.

I love it here when I leave. Then I don't want to leave when writing is over. Why do I know myself so little after nearly 56 years? Or, do I really know myself so well that I I know, in my bones, that writing takes all of me. I cannot skate along marking the glass-hard ice.

I have to roll over the rippled ice, jarring up and down. I have to go for an elegant sweep into backward skating with my arms out -- and catch an edge, flail my arms and smack harsh on my ass.

I have to skate right into the thin ice without fear and break through. Plunge into the water below. So cold, it punches the breath straight out of my lungs as I sink. Down, down, arms beating, fear racing from my tips to my core. With my message, "I do want to live!" comes the echo back from the chasm, "Then write. Write to find your breath. Write to feel the blood in your toes. Write to make your heart beat again.

Write, goddamn it, write.