I am no writer...I burn before I write. I open my chest, and my heart beats the words...drunk words ,grandiosity. We know it, we understand why Sylvia and Ernest off'd themselves.
Sad drips of ink on paper. Wanting, waiting to be understood...but no one gets it, and we are summoned to a website to cleanse our brains of the affliction, yes writing is a disease.
I poke around, I try to feel the sensitive skin of other writers, we are jelly fish, alien and lethal. With our pen we take on the world, we take on our enemies, our doubters. We are buccaneers on an Island, we are outlaws in a wood. We used to be hanged for our words.
I am searching, I am exploring...come join the adventure.
