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2004-06-29 // 12:52 a.m. When another's words inspire you to write, you know they are a writer. The sweet tang of her words still lingers on my lips, hums in my ears and I am left with a familiar ache. My fingers hover above the keyboard, poised and coarsing with story. Nothing comes. Just the same avalanche of thought that falls splat on a wanting page. A painter can take a blob and rearrange a work of art. A builder can take a pile of lumber and create a home. A healer can take a stash of herbs and offer renewal of spirit and body. But I, a writer, pluck from a mess of words and walk away with, at best, a jig-saw puzzle more complicated than the one I'd set out to solve. What are words? The intangible art form, the only of its class. A string of Christmas lights that come with a dial offering 16 different settings; six basic colors sacrificing themselves to myriad displays of character. Words are my art form. Toss them, turn them, feel them tingle on my tongue until my veins harbor metaphor like a dam holds water, just waiting to bleed. And so, I write. But not tonight.
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