A friend once asked me if I’d write if I didn’t have an audience. My answer: “nope.”

That same week The World’s Strongest Librarian made a comment to me to the affect of, “we write because we need to, right?” It sounded so noble compared to my admission.

This got me analyzing my potential narcissism, neuroses and persona. From where do I derive my joy? The giving or the receiving? The process or the packaging? Am I in this for the glory or have I truly got the guts of an artist? Did Elvis sing in the shower?

The conclusion: I don’t actually need to write, not like Anais Nin did, or Henry Miller. I don’t journal. My bookshelf is less than 20% fiction. I’ve never been to a writing workshop.

What I need–like I need clean water, kisses, and milk chocolate at 3pm, is to share what I’ve found in my search for meaning. I yearn to philosophize. My voice–written, spoken, sketched–engages me with life. Either Rumi or God or Orpheus planted a mechanism in my brain that compels me to broadcast my epiphanies in anyway I can. Even on my most interior and complex pursuits I’m thinking to myself, “Can’t wait to register this a-ha in The Ever Evolving Big Mix of Cosmic A-ha’s.” The mix of us-ness. The mix of heartbreak and euphoria, collapses, and victories of determined love. Our mix. My art doesn’t work without the Our.

So I thank you. Thank you. For listening. For hearing, cheering and even for leering. Your readership and conversation are the alchemy that makes the pixels meaningful. This ain’t just a blog, or a drop in the bucket, this is a sacred feeding-post on the way to more. More to be grateful for.

2010 Blazing Blessings,