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 driv…
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