I remember being very afraid of Edgar A. Poe when I was a young teenager.  I loved his poetry very much.  Which must have meant that there was something seriously wrong with me.  The depression and even suicide rate for poets and authors seems unfavorably unbalanced.  That may be a perceived statistic, but perceived or not, it has been factual in my mind most of my life.

I've always known I was a writer.  Never with ambitions to publish or for any kind of gain.  Just expression.  It calms me down.  Gives me an outlet.  Clarifies my thinking.  Helps me understand what my convictions really are.  It has only been recently that I have felt the desire to master it.  To give my voice - a voice. 

And I must admit, it is a hard thing to balance.  It can draw you deep within yourself.  The inspiration, and excitement and passion can blur the living, breathing world all around you.  I've devoted more time to my writing lately.  Which I don't think is a bad thing.  I want to finish and my time is relatively productive and positive.

But I forget.  I forget how quickly your own life can pass when you are writing about someone else's.  I forget that the expression of the hardships of your characters doesn't ease the suffering that is currently taking place around you.  With neighbors, friends, and family.  It hasn't been all-consuming.  I do live a life.  But I could do better.

I forget to apply the laws of truth, light, and intelligence to myself.  To remember that the principal of losing your life to save it applies to innumerable aspects of our daily lives.  That putting others first, that using not just my words, but my physical body to lift and comfort and give all that I am to those around me will result in finding what I really seek to put on paper. 

How I end up doing things so completely backwards is a little embarassing.

But writing without life is not writing at all.