I need more than a writing coach; I need a writing therapist.

Writing is supposed to make me feel better.  It does for a minute, and then the anxiety bubbles up in me, calling me to write more. 

Stories, cry to be written.  I feel dragged on a submissive voyage crossing the sea of hope as I allow the pen to keep me afloat.  Wanting to explain something that can’t be explained and surrendering to the glimmers of thoughts outlined with an introduction and a conclusion grants me a momentary sliver of peace as I bask in its completion.

Yet it’s never finished.  It only opens up another door, that must be walked through.  Sometimes there are multiple doors opening at the same time and I don’t know if I can choose.   

I write myself out of the negative.  I write myself right side up.  Most of the time, I write to convince myself there is a silver lining. Encouraging you encourages me.

The bubbles are always there, floating.  Sometimes I’m able to capture them before they pop.  Other times they float away too quickly to even be recognized fully. 

Effervescent bubbles build pressure.  Rising to the top, I write.

Inner debates and philosophical arguments need to be won, positioned in word pieces grasping for perfect tempo.  Reflections become what I want to see.  The words rescue me.


Prisms, capturing air

take flight

wind directs

bubbles playfully invite   

follow slowly, gently

don’t hold too tight,

delicate ideas

disappear from sight

-Erika K Rothwell

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