As writers, we live double lives: lived once in the world of others, and again, in the quiet of our own minds. It takes a certain amount of will and courage to leave with regularity the circle of humanity in order to enact a kind of theft, which is one aspect of what the writing life seems to be.~ from an interview with Anne Germanacos at ph.d. in creative writing
Am I a writer? I suppose I think of myself as one, but I would not admit that to many to people. I was published eons ago in college, another lifetime. Having just read a book about Tori Murden McClure, where people constantly asked her ‘Why”? It made me think about ‘why’ I do certain things, the smart ass in me automatically thinks ‘why not?” But truly, I write to make sense of myself and the world. As I grow older I find myself spending much more time inside my own head. I am not one to be quiet in social situations, yet more and more I find myself listening and retreating into my own world. This is not well received by those who know me and they ply me with concerned questions and strange glances. Solitude is something that feeds me and a necessity for my sanity, I will gladly get up before dawn every morning at the beach to watch the sunrise. I realize it rises everyday at home as well, but it is not the same. Spending time with people that share the stillness and quietness is also a true gift. Talking has become quite annoying, when it is used simply to fill in the silence. Strange how time gives us lessons that nothing else can teach. I have become much more patient with children with their inexperience, and older people and their dwindling skills. And yet my impatience with apathy and inertia with those of my own age is almost immeasurable. So why? Why do I feel the need to photograph so much? I am trying to capture moments I suppose. Why write? Writing allows me to talk about the experience of that moment. This particular moment was simply beautiful,I captured it and now I can share it with you, what more of a reason could anyone ask for?