True art is forging the unknowable into the known, only to have disseminated into so many parts that they form a mosaic of wordless beauty when put back together. Such is writing, which for me has been an everlasting love affair that’s taken on so many guises and roles in my life that it’d be insulting not to acknowledge its catalytic effect.
I started writing before I could hold a pencil. The sheen of everyday reality – whether it be the mundane or spectacular – held sufficient accord to register as writing-worthy then, and I’d dialogue whatever my hand was incapable of transcribing via another medium, whether it be role play, performance, or simply indulging in living daydreams.
And that has never left me: the undying inclination to turn things into words. I’ve currently written two full-length novels, an anthology of short stories, and various other pieces that I feel have done justice to the stages of life they grew up alongside. Writing has been an omnipresent force, it at times an ally while at others it’s been a weightsome burden. But never, ever have I divested my faith from it; not once have I doubted the course it’s taking me down.
I can’t, because that’d be existential suicide. To forsake writing and that which it involves would, to my mind, be akin to an astronaut cutting itself free to float on away in unabated aether. You see, when riding high, writing grounds me, and when low, it lifts me up. It lives on forever as the shadow of that which is and isn’t, and to downplay that would be to turn a blind eye to the most fundamental of realities.
I feel privileged to have been granted the gift of word-alchemy, and feel it my duty to share the fruits of this bounty. While this article registers as but an introduction to the Great Mistress, know that much, much more is to follow, and that as long as breath circulates in lungs and bloods moves to-and-from hearts, writing will forever illuminate this quite preposterously beautiful thing called Life.