I like words.
The way they allow you to escape from your shell and plunge yourself in other's emotions.
I write small stories, one at a time. I write them when the feelings are warm and bind them together before they cool.
Sometimes they can be spliced cold if they are meant to be part of another. But other stories feel leashed when my feelings are all wrong. Then I free them to find a new purpose or to die.
Most sick phrases have no cure and it is preferable to let them die.
In a meaningless time with careless thoughts, words should be alive. And if the authors are conscious, they will kill the pestilent words themselves.
My writing process is an exterior gathering of context for the meaning I find within.
I walk through my days listening to life and taking parts from my favorite thrills. There is usually Love and Death.
If you can give me the same kick without these two, I would say you found Beauty and Pleasure. My second favorites. But truth be told, they cannot exist without the others, as you find Beauty in your love soaked memories and Pleasure takes a new significance when you know you are about to die.
Writing must respect language and I will fail as I do not know this code on its entireness.
I'm a writer. I do not want to be a target for the critique. But a fearful furnace only breeds abstemious coals. So, I will let my ashes inflame other fires and I will tremble, cursing in my native words, in a silent and anonymous way.
I attain to make my way, loved or cursed. Slow or fast in triumph. I will pick up the weeds as I see them. Hear my thoughts, hide my faults.