What I love about writing is the endless realities that I can explore without really knowing what I will find. Driven by the will to witness my own frame of mind that I am not aware of while performing my day to day routines. It is like therapy, escapism, emotional release, selfish indulgence, cleansing calm, and child-like discovery all wrapped together in one act of creativity.

Anything and everything I can imagine and put on paper. It is a kind of god complex you could say. Knowing that when I write, I will always know best about what will be written. Because I alone will be the actors, the narrator, the world, the creatures, and most importantly, the audience of one.

When I am not writing for work, when I write on my own personal time, I am not writing for anyone else. Being that “audience of one” takes on a kind of divine mantle of limitless potential. I do not have to worry about any rules. Know one else will read these secret words. Be it misspelled or made up. Run-on sentences, grammatical incoherence, nonsense facts, or blatant gibberish rambling. I can just be free and play. Truly anything is possible.

I write both in notebooks and in a computer app journal. From short paragraphs, messy sonnets, and haphazard short stories. All scribbled down, incessantly typed, and vigorously jotted; can come inspirations for ideas. From these random tales and thoughts, that I have birthed through the years. I can pick and pluck things that I can use to create even more different and fascinating tales. They are all a kind of compost heap. A nutrient towering layer cake of things, moments, characters, conversations, and worlds. Just words put together in all manner of ways. Given a vibrant spectrum of tempo, rhythm, and cadence.

It is from these numerous pages of words and implied voices, compiled with my dreams, and daily fascinations, that I came to write my first novel. Yes, not yet published, but created from the history of my past writing explorations.

Whenever I sit back and really ponder on it. I am kind of baffled how I even came up with the novel I wrote. It was like I was possessed. An entire (and actually completed) story unfolded before my eyes without me really knowing everything that was going to happen. I of course knew that certain things needed to happen every once in a while to get the plot from point A to point B and so on. But the journey was a mystery.

I found that the characters that I created began to have a mind of their own. Driving the story forward with their own wants and needs. Speaking to one another and doing “things” that I myself would never do. Some of the time taking me far beyond what I had planned on and hoped the journey would go.

It became an addiction I had never experienced before. And when the story was eventually coming to an end, I didn’t want it to. I wanted it to continue. But then, when it did finally end, when I looked at it as a whole. I saw its heart. I saw for the first time what the story was all about. In a way, noticing this one thing was like my unconscious self gave my conscious self a gift. It was quite weird and uplifting.

And so this, is why I love to write…


“As the pale stranger straightens his wrinkled, sun bleached suit jacket cuffs, and buckles the frayed nylon strap across his narrow chest. From a water stained park bench stool, he peers up into the heart of a great city. Given a name too common to remember. But a jungle, in his piercing black eyes. A wilderness of sour metal, pocked concrete, foggy pained store fronts, and plastic wrappers. He welcomes the moist burnt coffee breeze, and tinny echos of traffic symphony. Reminded of simpler times, when a smart suitcase was preferable in the proud profession he walks. For no other can deliver the quality of service, and the sacred commodity, quite the way he does. Carried on his back as a pack mule would deliver the equipment needed for an excavation of ruins. The stranger stands and reaches the thin, towering match stick height, of a wilting coat rack. His looks are of a buzzard that has just consumed a teacup sized marmalade trifle. Determined, smacking is purple lips, he bends forward in a crooked hunchback posture. Much like a drooping street light about to fall forward. He strides a new path on the hunt. Elegant as a calm ocean wave in search of a beach to soak into. An apex predator of gnat sized hunger. His long trek-steps clack into the city thicket, with a backpack of sweet, kitty-pie pickles.”


…You see? Anything is possible.