It probably goes without saying that I love to write, probably just as much as I love to read. I love flexing my creative muscles, but also consider blogging a close companion — it’s been my years-long, ill-kept secret means of unleashing my energy and weird thoughts on the Internet.
In many ways, writing makes me feel like a guest invited to another world or into the lives of my characters and my readers, though this probably makes the process seem more formal and organized than it truly is.
A more apt description, perhaps, is that I become a fly on the wall, privy to scenes and thoughts and emotions that seem to spring from my mind to my fingertips when I start writing them down. It’s almost like I hear the words and the descriptions and the poetry, but not quite — it’s something that becomes heard once it’s written, but until then it’s faraway but ever-noticeable, like a train horn sounding off in the distance.