I think a big part of my motivation as a writer is that I love making things. Truth be told, I still dye Easter eggs every year (sometimes with a niece and nephew to legitimize the process, sometimes not), and it brings me joy. Artwork I’ve done at every age still hangs on the walls in my parents’ home. Something Don Revell said in a recent interview on Here Comes Everybody reverberated with this idea:
Q: How would you explain what a poem is to my seven year old?
A: A poem is something made of words that you enjoy.
I like the Q; I like the A. One positive aspect to being this kind of writer is that it helps me to finish projects. If I am, say, washing the dishes, that drive is not there. But with art, photography, writing, and other creative endeavors, I tend to wrap things up. And when I’m done, I tend to feel pretty good about the process. Which is not to say that I consider my work masterful, necessarily, but if nothing else, art reflects something meaningful (a conflict, emotion, obsession) that felt important to me at that particular time.
Today I’m leaning toward a not-so-intellectual perspective. In Houston it’s a rainy day. I’m glad to be home. My baby is taking a nap. And it is still no less than amazing to me that I could be typing words and seconds later you will be able to read them on the world wide web. Blog on.
