So I’ve decided to start a writing blog. And yet, I hate writing. I hate the way that words become so hard because they are suddenly so important. I hate the way that my mind is degraded by the words that it uses and depends on, I hate that it is a perfect reflection of my own being and that its emptiness just reminds me of my nothingness.
For me, writing is a bit like vomiting. It’s this ugly, disgusting process that requires you to externalise your insides and it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, and yet without it, you would die. All the poison that sits in your belly would curdle and twist your guts and you would die from the inside out because you would have poison in your blood and in your brain and in your heart.
I don’t fully know what kind of things I’ll be posting yet. I think a little bit of everything - musing on life, some of my own writing, characters that I have created, things that inspire me. I know this all sounds absurdly pretentious, and I’m sorry for that, but I am trying to convince myself that I am a writer, because although it’s painful and it’s difficult, it’s really what I want. To write, and be read.
