In Which I Lament

I cannot offer you any advice. I live in my universe, and you in yours.

How can you be a better writer? I don’t know. Are you sure that you’re a writer?

How do I come up with my ideas? I don’t “come up” with anything. My characters, settings, events, and conflicts exist of their own accord in my head. I live with them, am abused by them, suffer because of them. What I do that you might consider writing is in reality a desperate cry for release from the denizens of the inner planes of my consciousness.

I call them out like a conjurer summons demons from another dimension. I cast them into the page to be burned into existence outside their realms.

I am a magician.

I don’t memorize the styles of other writers and emulate them. I don’t expand on the reflections of the human condition that they’ve already expanded upon. My works are like intricate spells, written in my head by some phantom scribe in a language only I can translate.

I would like to be able to tell you that I sit down and write with a purposeful rhythm – that I plan out my chapters and leave the titles for the end, when the picture is complete.

I bleed.

I see random phrases in my head and use them as my titles. I like to think I force myself to write to these titles, but the story is already there in my head – a massive multiverse of endless life and death and heroes and villains and idiocy and vision.

I wish I could tell you that I know how to write.

I wish I could help you.

But this is not talent.


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