I’m a midnight writer. My writing space consists of candlelight and the glow of my computer, a notebook journal, the occasional hand-rolled joint burning in an abalone shell, tea, or a sip of whiskey in a mason jar.
A warmly lit, romantic, cozy, writing space allows my armor to fall.
When I write my body feels good, connected, and brave. When I write, I can hear my voice tuning in, breaking through the frequency chatter of the world.
I have long spells between my writings. I write more when my heart has been broken. When life has left me a little tattered, a little more raw. or when I’m falling madly in love, vulnerable and pensive, writing returns sanity and vibrancy to my world.
When I’m in a dark space when speech and verbal conversation leave room for harm, contemplative, and distant at these times, writing is my safest form of communication.
Words paint my universe and help me dig through the crap of my own insecurities and doubts, helping to untangle what I don’t understand, helping me to discover who I am, where I’ve been, where I’m going, revealing the rose-tinted magic of my sweetly ordinary life.
Que sais je?
~Michel de Montaigne
I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.
~Joan Didion
From the essay “Why I Write,” originally published in The New York Times Book Review
Thru soulful eyes 