The snow slants to the frozen earth outside her window.
A wind comes and disrupts the precision with which the snow descends, scattering those individual particles of frozen atmospheric water vapor frozen awry, off the path.
Her path is on the snowy white of the paper beneath her hand. Or the glaring white of the screen on her desktop. Both waiting to be filled with the “breathings of her heart.”
They don’t care about the quality of the words, of the sentences, of the stories. They only wait for the presence of the words, sentences and stories she needs to tell in any given moment.
Sitting at her desk, her dog curled up behind her, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the space heater at her feet, she writes.
She claims this time as her own.
Claims the space as her own.
The space around her.
The space within her.
She claims the page.
She claims it all.
But mostly she claims herself as a writer.
And don’t ask if you can buy her books on amazon or find them in the library as if having her words bound and packaged and marketed for human consumption is the only proof available to back up such an audacious claim.
That kind of question diminishes her path.
Diminishes her claim.
And she won’t be diminished.
Each time she shows up to the page, she stakes her claim on this path of writing.
The path is slanted like the snow outside her window.
It is easily blown off course.
It is filled with mud
And vast swaths of desert
And frozen tundra.
But she shows up.
Not for the so-called validation of having a book published but
because she must.
If she doesn’t show up
to the page,
she doesn’t show up
This was written in response to Day 11 of the #WriteYourselfAlive challenge.