criminal

the frequency of my writing is sporadic at best.
the frequency of my blogging, specifically.

when the muse strikes, i attack whatever available surface is nearest with the handiest writing utensil in sight; a computer and a keyboard, a notebook half-shoved under my bed and a marker, the back of a receipt and a pencil stub from my purse.

but it's time for the criminal confession: usually i keep my musings to myself.

almost daily i write something. sometimes it is a song. sometimes it is a story. sometimes it is more blog-style. but you do not see these. nobody does. criminal.

almost constantly i commit an even greater crime:
i hash the words out in my mind; waxing poetic, logically reasoning, weaving a tale. whatever the flavor of writing, the words flow faster and come together most cohesively cerebrally. and the crime is that i hoard these words in my mind alone, never sharing.

not that i am some reclusive, in-demand author. not that i have dozens of followers eager to read my ramblings.

but as a writer*, not sharing my words is criminal. it's selfish. it's cowardly. i'm going to make an effort to straighten up my act and put myself out there.

*why i consider myself a writer: yes, i am paid to do so. more importantly, though, is that stories come to me. that communicating with words, in prose, poetry, or nonfiction, is my natural state of being. writing = breathing.**

**however, writing does not equal sharing. which is why i am a criminal writer.