The words, they’re there. They’re there before I even begin to think them— before my pen hits the page, scribbling them into existence.
They’re there before I understand the plot, before I even know its exact name. They are in me, a part of me—the raw and the encrypted, the black and the white, the truth and the lie, the wrong and the right.
I see, hear and feel them—every time I open my eyes, every time I hear the wind blow, every time the excitement of a new story that I’ll breathe to life creeps up my spine.
I don’t want it any other way.
I can’t have it any other way.
I can’t.
Ded. My writing
