The natural breath of writing

Writing has been in my blood since a very young age and right this moment I am practising again. Creative writing has helped me to survive the harshness of our world and the machinations of the human while also exploring the unknown and reimagining the known of all.

You will find people lining up to profess to be able to inform you how to write: this is a nonsense. There is no way to write just as there is no way to breathe other than how is safe and without disorder. Even so, with writing we speak of the ill as we do of the joy. Writing is a communication, typically expressed via a modern day language of a certain family but can consist of codes and riddles, heiroglyphs or whatever you please. Personally I employ both existing languages and invent my own. I have become a neologist, a wordsmith, a tinkerer and a builder, a meta manager and a meta reductionist and all manner of such other items. I employ language for contrast, a cockney versus a subordinate of a king. I employ language to confuse, misdirect, appeal, repeal, debate, hinder, capture and befuddle. I fall firmly into the arms of my characters and watch their nuances become my implored breath and have myself drunk with wonder at their colour, no longer able to accept that it was mortal I whom gave them life.

Psychology runs through my veins in much the same, well-ahem, vein.

Philosophy is the blood of my speech, a dance most exotic and splendid yet never bashful nor of terror; the sweetness of the rose but not the assumed arrogance. One adores philosophy for being both ultimate and colourful. My characters drive my tales and my feelings drive my characters. Yet you may stumble across an author whose tongue does not speak so: this is fine. Your pen is your pen as is your mind your mind and they beat alongside you wishes and your fears. Be the author your heart commands. Not the author the world demands.

I write due to severe compulsion, brilliant will and adoration, inability to express my self sufficiently out loud and truly a plethora of other reasons. My library consists of books by authors such as A.E. van Vogt, J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, Jeffrey Archer, Roald Dahl, Richard Adams, books by Friends and of course my own works, to give but a few examples. Each author spins their tale of manner in such a uniquely framed way, like trinket of new placed upon dog of calm but where the creature takes the thoughts is unknown to even the author. Writing is simply the expression arm of dreaming and our dreams take us to past, present and future. Growing up I found myself entertaining quite the range of science fiction presentations and for a stage I regurgitated, most politely, of course, by concocting my own space faring tales as a gentleman's nod toward the inspiration that inspired. I rewrite anime tales as though etched by the hand of William Shakespeare. I dream up novels which quickly become epics and larger than my whole existence. Yet this profound depth of seriousness is matched by an equally serious humour. A sporadic joke, a nervous twitch, a parody or at times a complete breakdown of every single wall, starting with the fourth wall. There are no godly authors, there are no incorrect ways to write and needless to say you may dream how you wish. Either write as the author of natural or do not write at all, I implore you. Wherever you write, whatever you write, be honest and convicted. Stay true and pure. That is your armour. Around that shall form your story. This is how I write. This is it for me.

That is what I do.

Now. what do you do?