You are reading my words.
It's a heady thought: that the movement of my fingers and the thoughts tumbling end over end inside my head will impact you. I think I'm hardwired at a biological level to write. Whether it be that hackneyed narrative assignment I wrote for my second grade class, or the three-hundred-something-paged novel that my fourth-grade teacher took home to read to her children, I’ve always had a pencil more or less surgically attached to my hand. My first novel consisted of over a hundred pages of lined paper taped jauntily together and written entirely in my chicken-scratch; at the age of twelve, I would go on to start another novel just shy of two hundred pages in a Word document. And so it goes.
I don't know why I write. There’s no time and no excuse, just giving in to the best and worst of myself. It may sound cliché, but my tension bleeds away when I pick up a pencil and my heart does an …show more content…
To let buried words, suppressed ideas, float out into the great wide space of Written? If it is, I can’t dredge up even an ounce of guilt.
The months following my discovery of this app passed without much fanfare, devolving into an endless stream of words: a smattering of stars across a velvety, cobalt canvas, the bevy of characters and dialogue and actions and ideas forming constellations. In the loud chaos of the world, I live for these moments of solitude, when it's just me and that canvas and infinite possibility.
When I'm not writing, my heart bursts with a palpable ache that claws for release. It's addiction, plain and simple. Writing is a gleaming, state-of-the-art chrome espresso station; I can’t resist it any more than I can resist pouring myself a double shot, swirling the stirrer to fully incorporate the chocolate sauce into the mocha, appreciating the thick layer of crème…
More likely, writing is a tool of Satan brought into this world to torture
It's a heady thought: that the movement of my fingers and the thoughts tumbling end over end inside my head will impact you. I think I'm hardwired at a biological level to write. Whether it be that hackneyed narrative assignment I wrote for my second grade class, or the three-hundred-something-paged novel that my fourth-grade teacher took home to read to her children, I’ve always had a pencil more or less surgically attached to my hand. My first novel consisted of over a hundred pages of lined paper taped jauntily together and written entirely in my chicken-scratch; at the age of twelve, I would go on to start another novel just shy of two hundred pages in a Word document. And so it goes.
I don't know why I write. There’s no time and no excuse, just giving in to the best and worst of myself. It may sound cliché, but my tension bleeds away when I pick up a pencil and my heart does an …show more content…
To let buried words, suppressed ideas, float out into the great wide space of Written? If it is, I can’t dredge up even an ounce of guilt.
The months following my discovery of this app passed without much fanfare, devolving into an endless stream of words: a smattering of stars across a velvety, cobalt canvas, the bevy of characters and dialogue and actions and ideas forming constellations. In the loud chaos of the world, I live for these moments of solitude, when it's just me and that canvas and infinite possibility.
When I'm not writing, my heart bursts with a palpable ache that claws for release. It's addiction, plain and simple. Writing is a gleaming, state-of-the-art chrome espresso station; I can’t resist it any more than I can resist pouring myself a double shot, swirling the stirrer to fully incorporate the chocolate sauce into the mocha, appreciating the thick layer of crème…
More likely, writing is a tool of Satan brought into this world to torture