this is not an occasion for self congratulation

the boys who know i’m touched already don’t touch me and the others bombard with an irrelevant litany that only goes to reinforcing my low self esteem.

but this is not a conversation with myself.

it is an invitation to elsewhere, an unsteady stumble of hyperbole before we call in the editors. it is a fight for art and freedom, a saying no to the ordinary to find the voice that is truly unique.

i know i need some outside help but writing’s an internal struggle that you win when you surrender, surrender to the coffee splats and tear stains on the page, surrender to the adrenalin that gives your words their power, surrender to the moment when time stops – and the pen keeps moving.

so look for the ideas that are edgy, frenetic, keen to be born. feel as they churn and kick in your head and your gut then take it to the mat as you wrestle with the pedestrian to wrangle your thoughts to the page.

don’t throw down words like talking, speak a deeper meaning. discover the subtext in a personal moment exposed or something taken. embrace the bastard child inside to tell a second story that comes from a place that’s forceful, not forced, felt and not found.

then fly, soar, less is more but travel it all. step sideways to be the seconds before the parachute opens, the spark that connects the synapses, the wave that washes us all away.

the boys who know i’m touched already don’t touch me, but this is not a conversation with myself.