They say there are things you can do to make the words come fluidly like lighting a candle or sacrificing a virgin. I read one book where it referred to a writer that would sit at his computer and tell himself.

“I can either write this or die, write or die. These are my two options.”

I’d like to think that he has a gun in the top shelf of his drawer for when he gets writer’s block. Maybe he refers to it as something ironic like Hemingway, or one of the other many writers that offed themselves because of an inferiority complex.
We all seem to get blockage sometimes, and his method, I’d imagine, would be pretty effective. If it wasn’t, nobody would be here to say so.

I’ve also heard of people strapping the Greats to their feet and walking, the words absorbed through the fat in their cankles. The neighbors would look out their windows in terror when they saw dozens of classics strapped to my feet, towering over the houses.

The more classics, the better the writer.

Over happiness, over health, writing has always been priority numero uno. I’ve written through tremoring hands, and with tears saturating the board, short circuiting. I come back to nothing and start again, start again, start again. I’ve written sober, written drunk, written high, written caffeinated. I failed a math class from writing at the desk, as opposed to staring at the prepubescent teacher trying to impart some mathematical wisdom on my more than reluctant mind.

I’ve taken lovers, and I’ve lost lovers all because of writing, and in the end of those relationships, I’m always kicking myself. The time I had invested in loving them, I could have spent writing.

Writing seems to be about looking within yourself, taking the scalpel and seeing how far you can dig into your own chest before the heart stops. I’m still trying to figure out the line between schizophrenia and passion.

Luckily the internet provides an open forum of self expression, and though you may be hesitant, the writing is relentless. Including, but far from limited to
Novel Installments
Short Stories

A blank canvas, composed, then sifted through with leisure, by you, gentle reader.

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