Birds, Blogs, Blank

Husband, who likes to watch birds, has placed binoculars on the upstairs bedroom windowsill, the upstairs hall windowsill, the living room windowsill, and the den windowsill. Fiorella has placed  note pads and pens on her bathroom counter, on her desk in her office, and on the hassock in front of the couch in the den. We believe in availability.
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Fio ran off all of her 2015 blogs yesterday, and today she'll get the pages drilled so she can put them in a loose-leaf notebook.  She'd like to think that someone--maybe one of her children, maybe a researcher--might be interested in her literary endeavors.  But even if her name gets lost, if every page gets tossed into a fire, her words are out there in the universe for eternity.
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Fiorella, who likes to thinks in threes, is searching for something else to say, but is coming up blank.

Why Write?

You've probably figured it out--Fio is a compulsive writer.  Whether poetry or prose, it flows right out of her (poetry or prose/out of her it flows), Why?  Sure, she read, read, read from childhood on, but a lot of people read, read, read, but never write, write, write.  So why does Fio have file cabinets stuffed with story ideas, clever lines, and golden words?  Why has she produced essays, reviews, articles, songs, sonnets, novels?  Why does she write a daily blog?

The only answer Fio can come up with is that somewhere along the way, a computer key in her brain got held down way too long..