My Writing Isn't Always Pretty
I want to express what it means to be human, to love and lose and recover.
The words fall, a whirlwind of sentiment and experience, spilling onto the page like ink from a broken pen.
That business of converting the life into words is messy. But it’s the only breathing I know.
How to interpret the madness, the grace, the stomach-aching pain of human experience.
I write at night, mostly.
When the world is silent and the evenings are long. It’s a lonely life, this pastime with the mind.
But there in the darkness I learn my melody, my stride.
My writing?
The one for the nuts.
It's raw, visceral.
A kick in the snout, a mumble in the dark.
People tell me that it’s good, my book.
That it speaks to them, that it makes them feel something. Maybe it’s the clarity, the short sentences that make a whiskey shot. Or the raw emotion, my willingness to lay myself out there on the page with cuts and all.
It’s about what I know, what I’ve experienced.
About the abuse that changed me, about the devotion that gave me strength, about the insomnia that drives me nuts. I write about the ecstasy of meeting deadline, the sweet reward of making a sentence sing.
I use tales, examples.
Pictures of moments that have never left me, imprinted into my brain. , such as the incident when I was six and... you know, some things are best kept secret.
Yet all those terrible stories, those that tug at the periphery of my consciousness, escape onto the page.
Because I have learned that the only way out is up. That you could only cure the wounds by placing them under the light.
And sometimes, even in the gloom, there’s humour. An amusing pun, a self-ass.
Because in the field, even when the world looks like a quagmire, you can’t be mad.
And I write about work, this insane, messy existence we call "writer".
About the sleepless nights, the endless coffee, the self-doubt.
But mostly I write about human experience. To be loved, to die, to be raped, to be saved. To look for meaning in a world that feels empty.
This is not always pretty, my writing.
But it's honest.
It's real.
And perhaps, maybe just maybe that’s enough.