voices

A writer is not much of a writer at all without his or her voice. Artists search for their expression. They wander out of paint splattered studios covered in color, the hours of the day showing in the bags under their eyes as they try, try and try again to put their visions on a canvas - or carve them out of soft wood - or mold them out of metal.

Writers search for the voice. And if you're not a writer - you don't really know what that means. It is as intimate as the look in the eye of a soul mate. Something that is just known. It is as loud as standing in front of a main speaker at Ozzfest - it is heard. It is as plain as day - or the look on one's face. It is who the writer is.

And I can't seem to find mine.

I leaf through journals and folders of writings always started and never finished...I scribble ideas and scenes and notes and think they sound good but they always fizzle out once I try to expand on them.

I wish I could capture my conversations with you. I wish the exchange could be put down on paper as beautifully as it comes across in an empty bar, or over the phone or sitting in the driveway as the sun is coming up in front of us. I wish it could hold the comfort and the relief and the honesty of those talks. I wish I could put it all down.

I am me when I am there...and I wish I could put it down here.