write from the heart.”
But where do I begin?
Where do I start?
Do I start from the surface,
or do I plunge into the depths?
Do I write of my life,
or do I write of my death?
Do I fill my page with woe,
of all my broken past,
or do I fill it with strength,
of all the moments I held fast?
He tells me to write
but then he tells me little else.
He gives me a demand,
not a muse but an elf.
An elf who is really a gnome,
taunting me with its façade;
whenever I ask it a question,
its response is a chuckle, then a nod.
Write what you know, it says,
write what you dream of knowing, it says.
Write of anything and everything,
write of nevers and nothings.
Write of a full page, if you wish,
write of an empty page, if you like.
But if your wish is to be a writer,
then write, you must write.