Ā "I have considered the possibility that I write for no other reason than a droll admixture of idealism and vanity, I really have. But I write for far more than that, and those words I can proclaimāI am proclaiming, now, at twenty-eight, twelve years deep, five-hundred-thousand words, five-hundred-thousand spiralling, cascading, contorted, confessing, convoluted words, whereof a very many, during their organic spring from the psychic fountain, found their channel, their means to manifest, to become; in the journey from their previous station to my page there was no shortage of turbulence. Words do not come welcomingly; to the degree that you must let them come to you, you also have to chase them down, like a private investigator, tailing them til a standstill that reveals their final form before a certain printing of that form (or description of physical appearance of the suspectāa stamp of identity). The life of their own that they have, whether during the infamously bizarre writing process itself or in the aftermath of their printing, is a constantly intriguing phenomenon, an admirable mystery. Iām sure a neuroscientist could break it all down rather succinctly, showing me the direct areas used in writing, and the emotion processed in the writing too, but that wouldnāt tell me anything about the words - and Iām not sure there even is any scan that they can do to tell me about the words! The wordsā¦ The mysterious words. Hardly another soul can inform you about the words. They can give you an impression, sure, it may even help. But nothing else other than yourself can construe and perceive the magic liquid between each word of a text. It is more than even just reading the words and understanding all the definitions, way more. The heart is involved, as it should be. Where it isnāt I donāt consider the writing worth a noodle. That isnāt to say I donāt believe we donāt need aeronautical mathematicians and geological oceanographers, Iām just not sure how much humanity their writings will contain; numbers, facts, stats, data, suggestions, words, for sure. But how must salt is in the thing? Nada. And as the money goes up the sugar comes in: the salt goes out. And that goes for nearly all writers, thatās something the writing community really needs to bear in mind for a good while, let them ponder on it, Iām sure theyāve got a knack for being a bit thoughtfulāall writers across the board in the modern day! I wonder will it ever be looked back on as more than a stumble? Because worse than those boring academic fact-based texts is, however, the sociable, ambitious, mooning writers, the vain, confident writers, who think of themselves as possessing an atypical ability to write and write commandingly well. You might immediately ascribe me to this category of persons, though I should say I donāt even tolerate bad writing!āheck, I donāt even know what it is! Thus, the worst writing Iāve ever read and ever will read perhaps will always be my own. But I write to live, even more so to breathe. Itās when the storms get the most brutalising as it is when I am kissed by the flutter of a happy bird that I write, and arenāt I lucky to find something to embrace me in just about any condition? That is why I write: the white page can bear me in my most gargoyle-like constitution. In the throes and punches of an inclement mood, a tyrannical, a suicidal mood, I have been assuaged somehow by the grace of the white page. Perhaps it is because I feel I owe it something in return that I now write so impelled."
