There was an unfortunate man. Words came to him. Words lodged in his head. Words filled his face and throat and chest and arms. Words piled up in his hands. God help me! he said. But he did not move his pen across the page.
He was a religious man. May I express the voices of angels, he cried. But he would not record their utterances. Spirits of the dead inhabited him. Lovely visions and lonely dreams. Words filled his stomach and legs. Words reached his feet. But he would not walk across the page. And he died.
If only he would have written his story, they said. Then we would have known who he was.
We write to show people who we are. We are afraid to show people who we are. Yet we still write. Why do you write?
(p.s. my just released novel YOU WAKE DREAMING can be found at barnesandnoble.com/ebooks)