A few years back, the following line found its way into my writing, and never quite out of my mind:
I think words are actions, when you’ve handpicked each one like so many wildflowers.
I want to write like that. Not the line. The hook and its sinker. Straight to the heart, dragging me out of myself, my ideas, my bed. Drawing me deeper into who I am and what it’s all about, this place, these words I hope to never shake.
I want to write like so many wildflowers. Unexpected, uninvited, sometimes even unwelcome to the point of tears on paper or on keyboards. I want to pick and choose tailored words for all my shit, but not plan where they’ll take root. I refuse to pluck them from the carcass of days gone by, like feathers from a dead bird that never bothered to fly.
I’m a child stealing blackberries, again, when the words are good. Finding them had been adventure and magic and nearer to make-believe than I’d ever been. I never considered any one person could own land and trees and sky, and control those berries. I don’t know that I knew anyone could own anything. I never had. No, this was honesty in its infinite sweetness. Only the dripping rich color stained my hands, my lips, my shirt. For a moment, still, I remained untouched by this world and its silly notions of taming wild things.
I want to write like that or not at all.
