The following is in response to a “Who You Are As A Writer” exercise.
I write for the long inhale of a four-inch line of cocaine; the shake your head, “huzzah!” moment, where all the dust shakes loose and the wind-up ballerina circles to her melody.
I write unsure like a first-time actor cast in a role, constantly missing the mark and sipping a whiskey on the rocks afterward, expecting the next ding of the phone will be the director letting him go.
But no one lets me go.
And I refuse to let myself go.
Writing is a ball and chain; so often, it grabs a fistful of my hair and shoves my face to the screen like Kathy Bates in “Misery” while shrilly screaming, “WRITE!”.
I am motivated by perspective, the one-of-a-kind vantage that is mine alone. I am me; born on January 14, 1982, in an opened-window apartment room to a midwife. Three days later, a couple showed up to take me home.
Writing is like hammering a tap into my being to release the syrup and to help me uncover what I know to be true.
Ego drives me on, and I make myself write. I spit in a spittoon and let the tobacco juice roll off my chin because I’m not taking no for an answer.
Madness drives me to the written word as it works like a needle injecting sanity into my veins.
What if I let myself loose in my writing, did ten shots in a row, stumbled, mumbled, and fumbled for my keys? Drove and swerved, squinted one eye open to see, and flung gravel up the drive.
What if I wasn’t a butcher and chopped away beautiful marbleized prose and top-choice paragraphs?
But there’s not enough time. An hour a day is small potatoes compared to the big dogs in the game. How can I squeeze a couple more drops from an already composting lemon?
Writing is like a bacon-wrapped scallop. Tasty and nonsensical.