I have noticed that there is a preponderance of bloggers and writers and storytellers today. There's a plethora of blogs available online for our perusal. And for each one, there are as many reasons and purposes for why they write and for whom they write. The sheer volume of self-publishing sites and the progeny of self-proclaimed authors is a bit pretentious to this pragmatic mind of mine.
As a teacher and specialist of reading and language arts, I have learned to be proficient in and perceptive of our written language. I am practiced in reading and writing prose and poetry, essays that teach and inform, stories that entertain, and even the pith of self-reflection. I dare not pretend that my writing is perfect, nor am I presumptuous that what I write is profound and proper -- or even paramount for most people.
But it is practical for my purpose.
I am pleased that some follow my story and participate in my professed self-indulgence. I possess a bit of pride for my prowess with the written word -- my love affair with the sounds and words that make our language rich and profound.
I write for myself. I write to purge. I write to practice. I write for pretense. And patience and perseverance and peace. It is my panacea.
I write because it doesn't matter that I am deaf when the words pour from my thoughts. For the written word isn't heard in my ears. It is heard in the promise of my heart.