Why We Write (a Trail Brazen collaboration)

by Annmarie Ferry, Dana Herman, Helen Sadler, and Laurie Kemp

We write to be courageous, to push beyond the barriers we've hidden behind for too long.


We write because we want to interact with the world. We write because we can't find our place.


We write to shock, to entertain, to enlighten. To shout out to the world in hopes our echoes are returned.


We write as rebellion to the androcentric society who tells us women's voices should be soft and kind, not uproarious and shocking.


We write to be heard.


We write because we can.


We write to converse with Maya Angelou and SARK and Anne Lamott and Natalie Goldberg and James Taylor. We write to talk about John Dewey and Joy Harjo and Nick Flynn and Sherman Alexie.

We write because words.


We write to have power. We write because we're sometimes powerless.


We write to vent our frustrations. We write to celebrate our happiness. We write so that all of our emotions have a voice.

We write to make sense of pain and loss.

We write to remember days of our youth--willow trees with tire swings,  wondrous summers in Florida, the seemingly never-ending wilderness waiting to be explored, the loving touch of a mother. We write because we have hopes and dreams for the future, a future that holds more possibilities than we are imagining.

We write because it's our lifeline.

We write because sometimes we're not brave enough to do anything else.

We write because beaches.

We write because what else can you do when turtles are sunning themselves outside your door, a juvenile Little Blue Heron is fishing the edge of the pond, and the skies are full of cottony silver lined clouds floating on a cornflower blue sea.

We write to keep it all together. We write because things fall apart.

We write because we bleed words.

We write to stop bleeding.

We write to describe the sunrise and the sunset and the watercolors across the sky and the Sanibel seashells and the Corkscrew Swamp and the sawgrass and cypress of the vast Everglades.

We write because of who we've been. To remind us of who we are.

We write sound our auspicious yawp.

We write to hear our own small voice.

We write because the trees, a blackened silhouette obscure jewel-toned sunsets of cotton candy blue and deep 80's mauve, the color of my mother's curtains.

We write because plovers run, sciddling this way and that, creating tiny Pterodactylesque tracks in the sand as the tide languidly rolls in, out.

We write because we make each other.

We write to mark time in moments of peace, to make the elusive smoke signals of our souls solid, so we can return when we can't remember how.   

We write to unpack the suitcase of who we are, one we neatly packed years ago.

We write to remember. 

We write to forget.

We write to learn about ourselves, each other, and the rest of the world.

We write to process and reflect upon and document our experiences, and to recognize and acknowledge our sense of place.

We write because unsent letters pack a healing punch. We write to cut those who have wronged us, hurt us, pissed us off.

We write to honor our sacred promise to each other.

We write to plug the holes in our sinking ships. We write because sometimes we can't. We write because we need a lifeboat in those moments. 

We write to escape a reality we cannot control, to lose ourselves in a fantasy world where as authors, our pens are all-powerful. We write to paint vivid landscapes, to sketch caricatures, to show the world only what we want it to see.

We write because certainty eludes us, but we know for certain that every word we record is permanent.

We write to affirm our own humanity in a world of technology.

We write to question humanity, begging for benevolence--or at least common courtesy and common sense--in a world where civility has taken a backseat to inexplicable brashness.

We write because it's easier to frantically scribble out mixed emotions than it is to speak them; we write because the scrolling cursive words soothe us.

We write because our writing sisters share mentor poems that inspire us, act as the muse we have been quietly listening for, desperate to hear her whisper. We write because her voice doesn't come as a whisper but instead pours out like a waterfall over a cliff: fast, furious, and forceful.

We write to push ourselves into new ways of being, and to uncover the old ways that no longer serve us.

We write to record moments we are aware of beauty or significance or humor.

We write to connect point A to point B in our minds, and then to demolish the map.

We write because phenomenal women with strong constitutions and soft hearts have much to teach the world.

Why We Write Prompt #17

In preparation for Sanibel Island Writer's Conference (with a clear affirmation that we WILL all be there), we are using poet Jeffrey Thomson as a mentor this month.  He wrote the attached poem called "Why I Write."  We will collaborate on "Why We Write."

https://agnimag.wordpress.com/2015/09/14/not-ready-to-run-why-i-write/

His poem has 44 different "thoughts" about why he writes.  So, perhaps we can shoot for doing 10-11 each and make it about the same length?

Consider posting yours in a specific color so that we can distinguish each contribution. That was a great suggestion, Laurie.

Conversation with Maya, Part II: My New Quilt

I once again find myself staring in the mirror, this time fresh out of the shower, eyeing my belly--or should I say bellies--when the all-to-familiar feeling of disgust begins to bubble up.

"Stop!" I say out loud, even though I'm the only one in the room. "Just stop."

A new commitment to eating healthy(ier) and to cut out alcohol until I get past this slump has me congratulating myself more than ripping myself apart. I am not perfect, but I am better than I was.  Even my "bad" choices are better for the most part. I'm not worried about reaching super-model status, but I have to admit not being classified as obese at my last check-up gave me some motivation to get as far away from that number as possible. 

I close my eyes and visualize myself stepping on the scale (yes, I have brought it back for a once a week weigh-in but no longer obsess over a daily weight). The number I see is the goal I set for the next two weeks. My prize? A glass of wine, my ultimate dangling carrot.

I see you wrapped yourself in that new quilt.  I hear the the soft, raspy voice whisper in my ear. It suits you much better. 

"Yes," I sigh. "I am trying. I still see the flaws but am making a conscious attempt to celebrate their stories. To celebrate my stories." 

That's the thing about quilts. They are just a bunch of imperfect remnants, unimpressive on their own. But, lovingly sew them together, and they become a wondrous piece of art. 

And, just as the last time we conversed, she drops the perfect word bomb and vanishes. 

I glance again at the reflection in the mirror, looking at the imperfect pieces that somehow fit together and pick out a few features that I actually like. After all, this body has carried me this far and has done some pretty kickass things. I'm thinking if I treat it right, it will continue to do so. 

I'm not quite there--seeing myself as a wondrous piece of art--but, I like that my path may just lead me there someday.