It’s 1:23 PM on one of the most beautiful days of this year so far. I went for a long walk, but now I am seated at my desk, writing.
This is the process that defines who I am. The only thing I can do to figure out who I am, where I’ve been, where I am headed. Words are my passion, my fire, my reason to be.
Last year I wrote a novel. It took me a month of barely going out, barely eating, barely talking to fellow human beings. I have callouses on my feet from walking around the house in this strange daze. Half-asleep, half apart of a world that did not exist yet, but I had to write into reality.
My novels are not a source of income for me. They are what some might call experimental fiction. This last novel is a strange mixture of romance, drama, the kind of sex scenes that are better than porn, and unnecessary violence. That’s what some people would say.
I have stopped caring what other people say a long time ago. Even before I started this blog.
Back to the novel. Yes. I wrote it, even though I knew that few people would be interested in reading it.
I did it because writing that story into existence felt like the right thing to do.
Some of you might say that this was not a good business decision.
Life’s become a strategy, and this has taken all the fun out of writing too.
Your words stop having any power over the world the moment you decide it’s best to figure out the right strategy first. To figure out your target audience. To analyze statistics.
When the act of writing does not bring you much joy.
Your words change the world when they become your tool to change yourself. To know yourself. Your words draw a map of your own soul. That’s when your words mean something to other people too.
Sometimes people forget that. Even I forget that sometimes.