Why do I write?

Well. I write to communicate. I write when I simply cannot help it. I write when I am bodily possessed by strong emotions that must out. I write when a line pops into my head that is too good to waste, and then more images follow until I am compelled to commit them to paper. Like a seedling pushing against gravity up through the earth.

I write because what I have in my head needs to come out. Writing is my thinking space, my therapy, my processing time. Even if my mouth was wrapped in plastic like Laura Palmer, you couldn’t stopper me. My works are like her too, bodies in the water; there’s no way to keep them down — they just pop right on up. And then I need to share them to make the process complete. Unfortunately, they’re generally so conflictual, personal and revealing that I can scarcely share them with my nearest and dearest.

And can such overt communication ever hope to be art? I’m hoping so, but perhaps it’s simply poetastry — in this scenario, I’m just coughing up damp verbiage, then window-dressing it as art. There is a decent tradition of confessional poetry — though didn’t most of those poets euthanise themselves?

In the words of Aussie legend Paul Kelly:
‘Poetry is deep play. It’s comfort. It’s challenge. Just like a friend.’

I think he’s just about summed it up, folks!