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January 2018, vol 13 no 4

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Peter Newton

To a Friend Who Hasn’t Written in Months

Writing is a kind of wealth. I mean the act of doing it. How rich we feel in the throes of it. How carefree and unbothered by our day-to-day drudgeries when we are racing atop a slew of ideas that have finally broken free under their own weight carrying us along on the ride of a lifetime. Or so it seems for a little while. Until we come to a stop. And the landscape is back to its still life existence.

painted turtles in full sun logging in

Sometimes, I wait at the window for a homecoming of even the fewest words strung together like a souvenir from another world. There is no other reward really. But the unexpected gift. Saying what only you can say. What no one else can say – even if they wanted to. No wonder writing always feels like a kind of singing. A celebration. Good writing I mean finds that flow and sweeps us up in it. We are picked up here and put down over there. Now that's transportation. You'll know when it's time to get moving.

rebuilt boardwalk every step a new view of debris


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