Thursday, December 22, 2011


She told me was all about what wasn’t in the photograph, to look beyond the 4 by 6 borders. What had they chosen to leave out, what had been forgotten or cast aside, what simply didn’t fit the moment? That’s where your story lies. Your story is the secrets brewing on the edges, spilling over and out of the frame. The story is in the things you didn’t say. It was like she was speaking directly to me. As if time and space had parted and some way when she penned these words however long ago they were meant to find their way through the universe and sit in my lap on a Wednesday night after the early shift. How had I spent so long beating around the obvious fact that I wasn’t writing. I was. I just wasn’t writing enough. Not writing to survive, just writing enough to get by, writing enough to still feel like I was a writer. I had lost something or someone and all the spark was sucked out of my words so I let them fall away. I thought I had to wait for the wind to change or the moon to move me, but really, all I have to do is write again.

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