Many of you have asked about my writing process and to be honest—brace yourself for a less than appealing answer—I don't have one. Writing is something that I only truly started doing over the last few years. When I wrote my novel, Caged - The Human Zoo, I started backwards. First came the middle, then the end and then the beginning. My brain moves so fast that I struggle to comprehend what it is I'm actually trying to say.
For those of you who dislike not having definitive answers (this includes me), I guess if I had to answer, my "process"is putting down everything that I'm thinking whether it makes sense or not. Then I go back through and sift, categorizing as I go. It's difficult, frustrating and the equivalent of doing a puzzle but rewarding at the end when I'm not overly criticizing myself which let's be real ... rarely happens.
As for the frequency, well majority of the time I'll come up with something on the spot. Whether it's at a stop light, eating lunch,looking at a picture or waking up in the middle of the night because my brain tells me to "write that down!" These instances are annoying because my brain doesn't realize that I'm trying to sleep.
However, here's what I can say for sure about my writing. Every sample that I put out there to the world has a piece of me in it. Whether it's from a personal experience, dream, observation of another or opinion. I'll never tell you what part of it relates to me because I want each piece to be subjective to the person reading it. There's nothing worse than reading a piece of writing, relating it to yourself only to realize it's the exact opposite of what you thought it meant.
Anyways, I bring this up because I wanted to re-post a short story of sorts I posted on my Instagram a while ago. Not all of you follow me on there and well this sample is one of those "on the spot" stories that I mention above. It's one of my favorites as well so yeah.
I Used to Write For You
I used to write for you. Things that I wanted you to read but couldn't say directly to your face. But, you never noticed. Me asking, "hey can you read this for me? Let me know what you think?" Was actually me saying, "can you hear me shouting for your love through silent words?"
There was one time though, that I poured my heart into a piece of work and asked you to read it. You did and your response created a visceral reaction in me.
"That's nice," was all you said.
Nice, as if the most mediocre and over used words in the English dictionary was enough to describe the raw emotion in that tiny little poem.
Infuriated, I ripped the delicate paper from your hands and looked at it only to see that it was ... blank.
When I looked back up, you were gone. That's when I realized that I wasn't writing for you, I was writing for me, trying to hold onto the memory of you ... but you were already gone.
So I let go and watched the paper crumble to pieces and the memories of you with it.