Bury Yourself in an Inexplicable Sweetness of My Words

The walls are never a prison, and any roof never stifles me. I manage to preserve the adventurism while being locked and isolated, for my words are real, as solid and true as every imaginable experience. They are the product of chaos, clutter, greed, insatiable hunger - love, tender feeling, sexual satisfaction, loving enthusiasm, and every possible set of emotions and reactions.

Like a hundred amorets, a swarm of words flies about my head. They leap from idea to idea and shot their arrows of completed sentences and passages into my willing heart. My imagination clothes the naked days with tender feelings, and in my happiness, the uneventful life turns into a fascinating adventure.

I worship the blank pages, ready to accept my writing. I trod on printed lines and shrug my shoulders with a delightful feeling of doing something venturesome, something magical, and absolutely unbelievable.

A day without my sweet mental struggle causes me every imaginable woe. I experience that utter weakness of the knees and fear to fall. And my heart beats almost painfully when a glimmer of a beautiful sentence makes my breathing strangely oppressive.

That is love. That is why I write. So if you don't want to read me, that's fine. I get my share of dope, pure intoxication, complete happiness in giving my words a chance to live and love.

I am too deliriously happy to care if you don't like it

When I write I cannot tell if it is pain or pleasure. Every fraction of a second is such pure, beautiful madness. "What can be better than this?", I say with something between a sob and a laugh.

My wayward nature wishes to be subjected to this strong guidance I feel inside me. My stories are enthralling. Above all, I wish them to be written, released. When it happens, and I click on the 'publish' icon, I feel as if I shake hands with this independent being I've created, and my heart goes pit-a-pat against my chest.

It doubles my happiness if you can attune to the tragedy or sing in unison with the sad song I've written, if you can recite some of my passages or laugh heartily with my protagonists - but if none of this happens, that's fine. My fictitious characters give me all the possible bliss I need.

I detach myself from the farther life of my stories

My dreamy and even dreary eye is following my heroes in their final stride to adult life, without my motherly watchful attention. The incongruity between the mystery of formation of a story and the masquerade of real, published life creates a curious psychological atmosphere. At first, I feel horribly worried at being caught in the foolishness or lack of logic. But somehow, at the moment of issue, these feelings seem more artificial and frivolous than any mistakes I could have committed in the process.

I reconcile myself to any ridiculous trappings. They were meant to be, settled long before, like developing milestones. Acts, attitudes, external objects and people, bad stories written in the past, weaker characters brought to life in the present - all are the necessities that are wending my way to a future masterpiece.

I am resolved to let some of my breezy writings live. The truth is painfully simple: if I cannot make head or tail of some of my past work, there might be neither there. If this happens, I allow myself a prolonged moment of hilarious laughter.

I'm not to be bamboozled with negative feedback

There is something positive in the entirely negative criticism, as there is something damaging in a too favorable one. I am on good, or at least on good-humored terms with both, adverse or otherwise.

I receive the first with that serenity, which is a characteristic feature of my personality, and which is close to gayety - an impulse to work harder. I like when it presents a challenge to my penetration. This type of response is the cogwheel of my writing business. I favor it.

The second, more handsome reaction, I receive with a crusty and rather cynical sense of humor. It's a flicker, a spark of light, a minute shade of delight - I take it with a fit of speculative abstraction as if it is not me they like.

The bare truth is - my story is liked, not me. That particular moment of my life, when it was created, is appreciated. I've changed since then. It is not me anymore who wrote it. I feel detached from it in a way and definitely detached from any praise it receives.

I say to my fellow writers, "Camp out, so to say, away from your finished work."

Share my fondness for living in a story-book style. Turn the page, start a new chapter, without hesitation, with curiosity and desire to learn something new.

Notice the eternal bliss that is always with you. Don't let any feedback deprive you of this delicacy of life. It is better to make mistakes often, being happy in the process, than making them often just the same, but with your heart in pieces.

You have words enough in your breast. They beat against one another like birds in a net, struggling to get free. Let them loose with no regrets. Your writer's voice should sound clearly and forcefully. Your face should shine with the glory of having created, with a sort of ecstasy which redeems every painful event and glorifies every pleasurable moment.