Writing on anything also means that, because I am in the center of a centrifuge of words (HA! Where did that come from?), I write and write and write, sideways, drawing arrows, assigning stars and squares and asterisks to ideas or thoughts or dialogue that cannot fit in the space. I may have to continue it elsewhere, sometimes a day later, on a napkin while having breakfast, or in the car, scribbling hurriedly in a parking lot, wherever and however. So, it takes work to pull and put together. There are times when I do not recollect what I’ve written and am shocked — deliriously or painfully so. Therefore, I avoid reading masses of words because I am afraid of pain.

Yet once I reread it, I decide to toss it or write it, or even better: re-write it. Some do get tossed — shredded by machine or by hand.

Sometimes, I write to see ink morph into words. To just write. For no reason. It’s why I write on everything. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote that he loved to travel for travel’s sake — one of my favorite quotes.
I get it. I could travel just to travel, too. Love airports. The solitude. The envisioned hope of a destination.