This is going to sound so pretentious, but sometimes I just so desperately want to try to explain what it feels like to write. When you’re deep, deep in it? It’s like something at the core of you is burning. You take a chainsaw to yourself and cut cut cut cut cut cut and what’s left is all the sawdust of the pieces of yourself you turned into something unrecognizable. And you love those splinters more than yourself. You treasure the sculpting, not the sculptor. It’s mutilation and destruction and sublime, and it’s agony to continue and it’s worse to stop.
And then you’re left with a a bunch of sentences that says “he does this before doing that” and that’s admittedly less poetic

















