Writing is breath to me, blood pumping to sustain life. It is the air I breathe, the food that provides my body with strength, the desire and passion that keeps my soul alive. Writing is letting go and rebirth. It is release.
Writing is healing.
Writing is a positive force and I am grateful I am able to write without fear of ridicule of what anyone perceives about the subject matter of my writing. In order to truly write, you must bare your soul to the world, allowing the public inside your heart, soul, mind and the most sacred parts of your being.
This is an immensely brave act.
Every writer knows that their secrets, desires, dreams, loves and letting go, can be found in their own writing.
Get it all down first, free form flowing thought, anger, sadness, happiness, love, every emotion you feel, every thought you think.
Editing is for later.
If you cease to document those very first moments the need to write strikes, you will lose what is instinctual and natural as a writer.
So leave your pages bloody.
Leave them ripe with sweat, hard work, love, pain, grief, loss, light, warmth, enlightenment, rebirth, rain, fire, ice, ashes, matches, gasoline and lastly, most integral, life. Leave the pages of your mind drenched with the ink of the breath of every solitary subconscious thought.
Make sure your words set fire to cities and nations, to hearts and minds, to the very core of every human spirit who is paying attention. Make sure your words seep into the skin of the reader, leaving trace minerals that sustain the ailing human shell.
The main purpose of writing is to make a point.
Your words must imprint the reader so deeply that they begin to create and form different thoughts; quite possibly, they may start to see, if they already do not, this crazy, beautiful, lovely mess of a planet we exist on with new sight. Anything less is selling your own precious soul.
You experienced all of that love, loss, pain, grief and bliss for a greater purpose:
To leave your pages bloody.
Look around you. What do you see? What are you ignoring? What are you grateful for? Use all six senses, and ones you do not know exist, and tell me, what do you hear?
Try it. Then write about it.
To take the meat out of writing, the lymphatic fluid, the millions of veins, arteries and capillaries selflessly pumping oxygen and blood that berths within the lungs, to the heart of the artist, is quite simply, utter and irreversible, literary death.
Make them pay attention.
Set fire to the soul.
Anything less is an abomination to creation.