Silence does a writer's mind little good when he silences himself.
I spent most of the last two months (wow...so long) digging into the grey matter for a little realism. This writer needed to look hard and close at "the love," that part of every writer (real or fake...and you know what I mean) that feeds the curiosity about life and the world surrounding it and that nudges every scribe to put pen to paper or fingertip to keyboard. "The love" cares little about bills and insomnia and relationships and that movie that you waited four months to watch on Cinemax because you paid for it, by God! "The love"-- writing-- wants your devotion.
Writing is a Muay Thai boxer who wants your mind to tap out in the fight, to yield all control to the pen, to the CPU, to the poet's corner. Writing wants your absolute love and devotion. Writing wants your kids, baby! Dramatic, you think? Kill the messenger if you must, but writing is not something you do just for the sake of doing. This art is a love thang, an addiction, and a career all wrapped in C-4 explosive and critique. Explosive, exhaustive and exhausting, writing expects your best.
I failed to give my best to my writing in the past. There are places within me that I ducked, dodged, bobbed and weaved past for years that are determined to see the printed page, papyrus or Kindle. Excuses and fears are chained in a dungeon right now, Guantanamo Bay'd like political prisoners. Writing has won the battle at long last, and I accept defeat.
This defeated man has become the victor. Stay tuned, reader, because you and I are in for a wild ride together.
