The Blank Page

The blank page— Sometimes it beckons like a friend. Other times it mocks me like a fiend. It can be a weightless delight. Or a Sisyphean burden that brings me to my knees. – Sometimes I find my groove And …

I Fell in Love

The first time I fell in love, it was with dance. The notion of movement and music coming together to produce something new and altogether elevated delighted and moved me. The second time I fell in love, it was with …

Writing Is Alchemy

As an only child for seven years, writing was one of my first companions—after stuffed animals and Barbie dolls, that is. And unlike my imaginary friends (of which I had many), words were tangible and ostensibly powerful. Even then I loved that words are adaptable to any situation; and there are always more to discover and add to my collection. Finding a fantastic new word is like receiving a gift from a secret admirer—and the gift suits you perfectly—a new possession so apt it feels old.

As an adult, I still enjoy playing with words. They can be as supple as Play-Doh and as solid as Legos. Words are conducive to both the serious and the light. They can make you think, make you angry, make you laugh, or make you cry.

Writing is alchemy. It is mysterious magic—conjuring ideas, characters, landscapes and more out of mere syllables—willing something into existence out of loops and lines and curves. Starting  movements, forging history, testing paradigms with nothing but words.

Writing is the path, the destination, and the journey. It is an act of perpetual exploration and discovery. It is the vehicle—a means of moving to new and unexplored regions of imagination and reality. It is a mirror, a microscope, a rhythm, and a melody. Quite simply: writing is everything.

The Flow

It’s been a while since my writing flowed. That’s the best part of writing though—the flow. Every time I sit down to write it’s what I hope for—the deluge, the torrent—and to be carried away in my efforts. I long …

Writer’s Block

Some days the words won’t come. They cling to the back of the mind like the vestiges of a ketchup bottle. They tangle up like headphones at the bottom of a bag. They resist like a timid cat cowering under …

The Word Sorry

Dear plane neighbor on JetBlue Flight number 949 from JFK to Grenada: I know that what I said was sorry, but that’s not what I meant literally. As a writer, I take words somewhat seriously, so I feel the need …

The Power & Impotence of Words

I walk a fine line between words. On the one hand I believe they have power—great power. Words can hurt and heal. They can start wars and negotiate peace. Words can evoke memories and inspire imaginations. They communicate ideas and …

Writing Feels Foolish

There are days when the words flow. When writing is easy, pleasant, and simple. On other occasions creating is agony. Ideas are absent. Motivation is fleeting. Sometimes writer’s block is indeed an impediment. A looming lump of impenetrability. Other times …

Words Are Fiery

Just as some are in love with the idea of love but are unwilling to do the work of cultivating it, some enjoy being furious just for the fun of it. Their ire has no focused direction. They are ready …

Considering Charleston

Words usually come easily to me. I can be longwinded when I speak, and my writing is rarely brief. I blame the latter on my small handwriting. For the majority of my high school years, papers were handwritten, and I had to fill the page requirements like everyone else. Since my words took up less space, I got used to using more of them.

Words usually come easily to me, but then I watch the news. I see that the country I live in has some festering wounds. Slavery has left a legacy of disparity that is proving difficult to dismantle. I feel as though I’ve been tricked, or asleep, or in denial. When I was younger, I was certain that racism was endangered. I assumed it would die with the old-timers—becoming extinct in a matter of decades. But then the news of an event like the slaughter in Charleston hits me with a sucker punch. It’s 2015, and the assailant is young.

As a writer, I feel I should write something, but my reaction is one I find difficult to articulate. And whatever I could say in response to Charleston seems like a paltry offering when compared to what better minds than mine have written already—or even just stacked against the severe magnitude of the violence that took place.

I understand the history; it’s the present I’m struggling to grasp. Current events are making it clear: racism is a currency that is still in circulation here. When the conversation turns to Charleston, I’m ill equipped to make a response. What can I say other than I’m sickened and shocked? What will my words add? I have no solutions—no pithy rallying cries or hashtags.

Quite honestly, words leave me when I’m confronted with such atrocities. Considering Charleston, words fail me. All I’m left with is a confusing mélange of feelings: pity, sadness, despair, frustration, fear, anger. All my life I’ve been told (and believed) I can do and be anything I dream—that this is a land of equal opportunity. But hearing the news, I begin to wonder if we’ve irreparably ruined this world (or perhaps just this country).

In response to Charleston, the only words I can muster form questions: How can our country have come so far and still have so far to go? Have our methods of measurement been wrong? There’s a lot that can be said and even more that can be thought, but if we hope to make this world a better place, what can actually be done?

Racism isn’t new, but it’s modernized. I expected it would linger a bit, but I’m still caught off guard by its scope and size. Has it grown, or has it just been hiding behind political correctness and false smiles? How much of our progress is an illusion? How much of equality is a lie?

It’s not that all my hope is gone. I’m just realizing how much more I have to hope for.