"I enjoyed it, I really did. I began to realize how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours and a fixed salary and very little original thinking to do. The life of a writer is absolute hell compared with the life of a businessman. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn't go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him. If he is a writer of fiction he lives in a world of fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he's been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whiskey than is good for him.  He does it to give himself faith, hope, and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom."

"He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it."

-Roald Dahl, Boy pg 171

Writing is the one place deep inside a person that no one can touch, its wellspring a hidden lockbox full of vast insights, thoughts, ideas, innermost feelings... To tap into that place is in itself a miracle, to draw out from it is near-catastrophic.  I think that's why writers are so explosive.  We live lives of falsehoods oftentimes  and the quartering of identities can drive a person to madness such that one day I find myself in horrible misery and the next total bliss.  Mine is a life of chaos--a fey creature poised to dart on a single disturbance, straining every muscle to turn away from a rejected inevitable reality. I've been told that I am both difficult and easy at the same time.  However, at the end of the day, when I'm alone with a pen and a journal, I know in that moment what existence is mine.

  I consider myself a writer.  I follow no standards and I have no certifications.  I have no proof of my belief, hence it may perhaps be merited more on faith than knowledge.  But there is no denying the loss in the page, the scenes of the mind that appear in every object around me like ghosts, buttons scattered across the days...  Clawing obsessively to find that single thought is engorging, a necessary staple of life.  Often it is fruitless; all it needs is just one.  One single thought.  Insatiable drive to reach that one single expression that brings an elation that none but a crafter can crave.  There is nobility in this; nothing for me can match the sheer exaltation of expression of the intangible--ideas so beautiful that literally wrack my emotions from my very frame.  Nothing is so empowering as to sob my whole heart unabashedly.

Nice to meet you.