The How and Why of Writing

The How and Why of Writing

Go out into this world and take its riches, drink its wine, and look upon its marvels. Swim in its
seas and walk tireless across its continents. Sleep in the darkness of its forests, dance in its deserts.
Find warmth in the high places were snow never leaves. Do this for as long as you can. When you
understand these things and their spender is lost on your jades eyes, and you see them as only
resources by which you might survive… travel to the cities of man. Become lost in culture, history,
and art. Learn their math, their religions, their methods of war, and their dreams of peace.

Love. Find another soul trying to take in the world and bursting at its seams. Grow accustomed to
the soul. Learn what it can teach you, and when you know all it has to teach, do not deny that love
can fade. Learn loss. Learn regret. Doubt yourself.

After all of this there will be a morning when you sit on the edge of your bed and the only
questions remaining in your head are the ones that one no can answer. You will want to lay back
down. You will want to sigh and roll back into the comfort of sleep, the addictions you have
accumulated, and the emptiness of oblivion. If you survive, you know everything that you need to
know to know everything that you don’t. What’s left. Nowhere to go. Nothing to see. Nothing to
hear. No new tastes.

The world can not create enough stimulus to sustain you, and so, you must write because there is
nothing left but to put away your inclination to consume and become a source.

It is a reversal of all that came before but unlike this world, it has no end.

A Little Yellow Bird

I fall. My back strikes a stone wall, knocking my last breath from my chest. The feel of it purging from my core it like a heavy pendulum clanging of the rim of a thick iron bell. I slump. The soft earth under me is a mixture of mud, hay, and there is some sort of cloth, a tattered pulled away from its whole.

Around me, the battle carries on, but now it seems distant and senseless. Strong men clash and bellow. Arrows streak from the south moving north. Women are screaming but their cried sound false now, the sound of ungrounded fear.

The sky is a crystalline blue, the memories of old sailor embellishing tropical waters. The clouds are a creamy white, not pure, not perfect, but more real and tangible than they have ever appeared before, as if I could reach up and run my fingers through them.

A bird lands on my knee. It yellow breast is pearlescent, blue then red, and then bold yellow once more. Its head cocks to one side than the other. I feel the words pass breathlessly.

“Hello there, little bird.”

It hops on spindled legs, light as a thought and equally quick. It’s well within my range of motion, my gloved hand dwarfing its diminutive wingspan, yet it shows no fear, only curiosity.

“Yep,” I say, for reasons I don’t understand, “I’m done for.” I point to an arrow rooted in a crimson river that flows from by chest.

The little yellow bird hops in place and somehow I know it understands. It looks to the sky.

I can feel the birds innate desire to leave the ground, so primitive and solid. I feel it too. I can almost remember swimming through the air. I had never thought of flying as swimming before but I know it to be true.

The bird hops closer and I can see my world reflected in its bright little eyes. It scrapes its beak on my muddy leather trousers and the sound of it is like a granite block being pulled over broken glass, impossibly close and terribly loud. I clench my eyes close for an instant than open them to the sudden pain of my heart beat.

A red banner arcs through my peripheral vision, not the colors of my kin, but I understand it as only color and motion, connotations have failed me, all meaning lost.

The bird hops further up my leg, coming to rest high upon my thigh. Its reptilian tongue extends from its glossy beak, dry, drier than a living thing ought to look. That greyish tongue drips into the red flow of my life and my pain sinks, not gone, but as if submerged in cold water.

I look again into the eye of the yellow bird and I feel wind between feathers and a need to push off. The sky is so wide, so welcoming, I know that it is. The bird laps again and I taste the color, as if red were a flavor and it resembles toil.

Another bird lands. A crow. Its beak seem large and imposing, a weapon tied to a feathered face. It caws. The sound is both gentle and harsh. It ripples out from my chest, taking what feels like hours but is done in a moment. The crow drinks from me and looks to the little yellow bird.

I feel my wings, sleek, black, and powerful. I remember pushing great waves of air, thick as sand, beneath me as I climb toward thin skies. I remember wakes shedding from my feathered crown, leaving not a single drop or dampness.

The birds drink again and I think of tradewinds high above the stinking mud and dusty roads, effortless speed and avian grace. I feel snow moved aside by pressure waves building up across my leading edges, while down tufts swaddle me in impenetrable worth.

A hawk lands. Its talons pierce into my shoulder but there is no pain anymore. I turn and look at it. Golden and pure as it holds a noble pose, looking down at the wound that is surely killing me.

“Hello Mr. Hawk,” I say, my words sounding strange to my own ears.

The hawk appears to nod but I soon realise it is dipping its head and taking small morsels from the red ring of my wound. I don’t begrudge him. It seems only right.

Once satisfied with its torn prize, it tilts its head back and guides the morsels of me down its throat, then looks into my eyes. A lifting sensation surrounds me, as if my once heavy frame is losing its mass. I can feel currents all about, high rushes of air, twisting eddies pushing their way between trees, and a cold front moving out at sea. These currents speak without words and in ways I don’t understand but the message they deliver tells of elongated days with my arms spread cruciform and proud.

The hark unhooks its talon and take to wing, I gaps. The crow drinks once more then lifts its streamline frame with a chaotic flurry of gloss and black. The little yellow bird hops back and forth, merry chirps pipe from its heart and I smile.

The hustle and tromp of the ground slips from memory. The sky, so wide. The sky is all now. Cream clouds and sapphire space.