This is the beginning of a love affair, I hope. One in which we never set eyes upon each other. A perfect love. A love without the need for physical presence beyond the subtle embrace of keen understanding. It is empathy that gives rise to the need for love, the strongest desire for self-preservation, hoping to find our reflection in someone else’s eyes.

So we begin.  But since all beginnings are nothing more than a presumption, I presume to speak. You presume to listen. The unequal terms are set even before the journey commences, I confess.

Like all love affairs, this too begins with a confession. I am well aware that my love of writing is almost equal to my hatred of reading. It’s not a good quality to have in a writer and points to an inability (some might say immaturity) to engage in self-criticism. For me, writing is not a form of escape, nor self-expression. (It’s at this point my mind wishes to further explore the idea that self-expression is a form of escapism, wishing to create another face than the one given to us, but I will resist the temptation.)

What then is writing to me?

Resistance. That is the word I am looking for. It best describes the act of writing, the single greatest revolutionary act one can perform, a sum greater in impact than all the regicides and wars put together. I resist everything the world has ever shown me. I resist the need to give into self-criticism, refuse to let my self stand in the way of the work. The best time to write is when you least feel the urge.

Resist the temptation to give in to embarrassment. It is a powerful force, embarrassment, powerful enough to overcome the instinct of self preservation and self-perpetuation. Resist it. If the world wishes to judge, so be it. You and I are in no position to judge our love of writing.

Not to say one must become an empty vessel from which the lovely Erato spills forth her madness. Even the most imaginative writing should be done fully conscience. A revolution done with purpose is dangerous; thoughtless, it is deadly. I suggest only we maintain a healthy respect for our craft at all times, a passion for the intense hours of labor ahead. Write ten hours to produce one good line, and sleep well, knowing it was a productive day.

Above all, resist the forces of the world. The source of our inspiration comes only from that. Never from the moon itself, but from the shadows neath the waters stir this life. Never forget this love of ours is dangerous, deadly, perverse, obscene. Demanding to love in an undeserving world is our greatest gift.