It was Thanksgiving, the end of November. I was twenty-eight or twenty-nine. I went back to the place where my life began. A visit to the south. Georgia to be exact. Two aunts, an uncle and my grandmother still lived there. A handful of cousins as well. So I went back to visit.

The crisp fall weather was in the air. Sweatshirt weather to be sure. The barometer fell during my visit and the rains came and the freezing and the ice storms.

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So I’m in the midst of another existential crisis of self-worth. Of course, I do believe some don’t get that fancy with the wording and refer to this as “life”. But then, I’m flowery, dammit.

I’m filling out a grant application and I have everything done. I’ve picked out the allotted ten pages that best define my work as a writer. I’ve got the i’s dotted and t’s crossed. But there is one last, teneey, tiny thing that I need to do. Answer one question in 1000 characters.

Here’s the question:

Who are you as an artist? What inspires you?

Insert existential crisis here.

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With Thanksgiving in the air, I am given to reminiscing about some of my favorite meals. I don’t recall most of them,  not the food exactly and sometimes I’m not sure about the company, but what has remained are the feelings. Feelings from those meals have embedded themselves into my soul.  You see, I’ve gotten rather sentimental about the kitchen table over the years. Ever since the first time it dawned on me, life happens at the kitchen table.

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Write…

Write stories

Write books

Write nonsense

Write poetry.

Write songs

Write sage-full wisdom

Write winsome crap

Write blogs.

Write bullshit

Write heartfelt letters

Write mindless twitterings

Write it on pads of paper

Write it on cement in chalk

Write it in bathroom stalls.

Write it in library of congress-ed books

Write it in the sky with invisible ink

Write it in the hearts of my best friends

Write with indelible ink on my gravestone

Write using blue keys on a detachable keyboard.

Write.

And love.

And laugh.

And sing.

And dance

And help

and…

And write dreary, dreamy, desperate odes

And witty, funny, only for friend reads

but don’t write of critics and publishers and agents and…

And get rid of the excess

And shake off bullshit

And don’t forget the muses (even if they are wrinkled and walking with canes).

and Write.

Write on the stars, in the core of the earth, in red dirt

Write in the water

Write only what I will read

Write only what I understand

Write for no one

Write from my soul, from my toes, from my heart

Write ridiculous things

Write insanity

Write pop cultue

Write til I ache

Write til I’m empy

Write when I’m empty

Write when I ache

Write when I can’t

Write when I have to

Write when I want to

And love

And laugh

And forgive

And forget

And move

Forward.

And write.