by Karen Elaine Greene

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Introduction

Why do I write?

Because I HAVE to.

I yearn for the feeling of the river running through my veins.
I crave the rush of power necessary
to push words through my pen and onto the page,
send them thundering over the rapids of my life —
the chaos culminating in a surging torrent
tumbling violently over the edge,
down, down,
crashing,
rumbling,
roiling,
into the frothing maelstrom.
I float up
gasp for air
plunge again to the bottom; push off the rocks
thrust my way back to the top
break the surface like a mermaid
and gently collapse onto the calm glass-top face,
gliding quietly through the clear,
breathing deeply of the space surrounding me.
I write because if I do not
I feel I am no more than a leaf
trapped in the brush at the waters’ edge.
Aimless, worthless;
stagnant and decaying waste.

I write to remind myself
that I have at least a toe-hold on sanity.
I write because my life is extraordinary
And I cannot sit idly by.