Author's Note: Do not chew up my run-ons, I like them andthey're pretty. Otherwise, gnaw away.


Sometimes I try really hard to get the words on the page, it almost hurts my mind to be exercised so furiously. I guess the purpose of writing is to make it work, not make it feel like work. No sense in pushing against a brick wall, right?

But sometimes I like the work even though I hate the result. The pain behind the strain can be so beautiful it's almost all magic and peter pan, how good it feels. And I'd never, ever throw it out. How many can truly say they write for pleasure and admit that pleasure is agony; that they don't stop until they feel it consuming them like a ferocious, man-eating pen and that it can only produce maybe one profound thing a year?

But what does it really matter as long as there's ink still fresh on the page, smelling clean, mechanic, and intoxicating? Large doses could only result in a certain breakthrough or dramatic death.

I aim for either.