Why Am I A Writer?
A poem
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Why am I a writer?
A dreamer?
Word-spinner,
Dreamy-eyed dragon slayer?
Have you seen the words I’ve spent wrapped up in,
Napped in,
Resting my head gently upon,
Cried into, over, through,
Twirled in, danced with, prayed to?
The masters I grew up with?
Shel Silverstein spun me into the clouds.
Roald Dahl took me on adventures and confirmed that words are magic.
Ray Bradbury brought me to ground.
Orson Wells told me to question everything.
C. S. Lewis and Lewis Carroll sent me to other realms.
The dreamy sustenance of L.M. Montgomery’s words drove me through Canada into a glorious gabled eave on Prince Edward Island.
Bronte made me fall in love;
Angelou broke my heart.
The clipped musings of e.e. cummings taught me to examine language and break the rules.
Wordsmiths taught me to questions, learn, critique, appreciate.
Why am I a writer?
Because words are sustenance;
Words transport, transform, incite
Energize, invigorate
Introspect, stretch
Reflect, open, invite.
I am everything I am because the writers before me taught me how to see.
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