Words for a Snowy Day

It’s still snowing. You can hardly tell though, except for the streetlight illuminating the tiny flakes that fall within the perimeter of its ember glow, catching them in their clandestine activity. I’m standing at the kitchen window beholding the dark and wintry scene, sipping hot bone broth from the lone Christmas mug in the cupboard, even though it’s mid-February. The oven clock reads 5:32 in dull green digits. My alarm wouldn’t go off for another eighty-eight minutes (but who’s counting?), yet I couldn’t sleep.

Why Write?

The question of why I write is one I cannot ignore and face almost daily. Most people know me as a visual artist, and this switch of creative expression must appear odd to some. I know that I must write, but even I cannot say exactly why. I want to have an answer for others and for myself. Interestingly, I don’t need an answer for God; but this makes sense, since it is He who calls me to write, and only He who knows the answer. Why won’t He tell me?