Emily Dickinson published less than a dozen of her poems during her life. The rest she kept hidden in a box in an attic. In her correspondences, she referred to them as her "letters to the world".
Sometimes, I feel the same way. All these pages and pages of words, just piling on top of each other. It's my small way, I guess, to invite people in: the doors are open, but the guests come and go. The rooms are empty at night when everyone has left, and I'm alone scribbling out more... (continue reading)
