“A word after a word, after a word is power”Margaret Atwood
I write as the only alternative I have to death. Maybe not a physical, literal death. But the unfortunate death of the very core of my being. Write or die. Write to live. If I didn’t write I would succumb to all that sought and continues to seek my demise. Writing is as necessary as my next breath. Writing is as invaluable to my life as my next heart beat. It is how I stay above the fray, fiercely independent and relying solely on the wisdom of my womb-heart.
Without words, either to read or write I fear what I would become. I fear what would happen to my voice. That I wouldn’t be able to recognize its tenor, or worse, that it would be silenced by white society and it’s black perpetrators. I write out of fear. Fear of losing myself. I fear that more than I fear the criticism of my writing. I’m not a famous writer. I’m not well known. In fact, I’m virtually unheard of. I am not sought out. I may never be. Still I write.
I write because this is the only route my pain will take. This is its destined and desired end. To meet its inevitable fate ripped out a page of my journal or the keypad on my iPhone or the word document on my laptop.
“Tears are words that need to be written”Paulo Coelho
I write because there are stories that must be told. Knowledge that must be shared, and freedom I must go after. Writing is the song of my survival. How else would the world know who the fuck I am if I didn’t write? How else would I know who the fuck I am? Without writing I’m just another raggedy, light skinned black bitch. Or whore. Whatever they say these days. Because they are always saying something. I write, not because I can. But because I must. Write or die. Write to live.