Because my native language is not words.
I know, it doesn't make sense; after all, a writer works in words. A little they do, yes. But they also work in the sway of something beneath words. The tree-breath and dirt-pulse and old lonely sea-drift beneath words. The dreaming silence. And that is the language of where I belong.
I write because what I can say beneath words allows me to have a conversation with those who speak the same language - the west wind, a certain kind of tree, the shadows watching from the edge of an old lake, the woman who lives on a hill in a great southern land, the river-thing, a girl with amber eyes, and all the other strange, half-wild people who may be trapped too in suburbia, looking at horizons, listening for a sound of home in the deep and secret languages of kindred souls.
This is the fourth post in a series about writing, to help promote my fund-raising storybook The Coracle Sky, which is now available.