“I’m not a Bad Guy I’m Just Drawn That Way”

Writing, a wise man once said, is like sitting down and opening a vein. No biggie. But oh, how morbid. Or perhaps not. Metaphorically, could be quite endearing, actually.And possibly very true. Except what courses through—and spills out—is not blood, but imagination. Just as fluid, just as prone to leaving [memory] stains, just as life-nurturing. It’s the liquid of inspiration, something between life blood and soulless ink, something that fuses the mind’s power with the hand’s ability, and births the forming of the written word. And once you begin, it may be difficult—perhaps impossible—to ebb the flow. You may actually die of it if you lose too much, and it offends those around you. You may also just as easily give life, lending brains as you lend blood, and make the world a better—or at least more intriguing place—one drop of letter at a time…

 
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