Day 93

I was savoring the last few pages of Kim Barnes's Hungry for the World when I ran across a passage that answers the question: Why do I write? She says: I think of the Inuit way: a wolf bone whittled to a point at both ends, coiled and frozen in blubber, left along the path of bears. The bear eats it and weakens slowly, over miles, over days, the bone twisting and slashing, killing from the inside out. Shame feels this way, swallowed and sharp, working its way deeper with each move to dislodge the pain, so that finally, we lie still, dying with blood in our mouths. We eat our stories and starve. I write to save myself. I write because I must.