Of all the possible things to write about, embellishments into self are among my least favorite matters. For me, I prefer writing fiction instead of delving into I. Writing directly about self–even in the short exasperation of an author’s bio– can be dreadfully painstaking. During the seldom times when I do write about myself,or ‘to myself’, I reserve that writing for night when I am alone and I can withhold my secrets like a poker player hiding his hand. But writing is not about being secretive, nor is it all about self. At its bare-bone form, writing is about morphing your thoughts into legible sentences and then praying that somebody reads and understands what you attempted to convey. In actuality, half of writing owes itself to the reader. If it weren’t for the diligent readers, there would be no money in writing, and most importantly, no purpose to all the tireless hours spent perfecting the craft. This is why I tend to gravitate towards creative forms of writing. Writing fiction has become a sort of cat and mouse game in my life. From the moment I awake until the hour I rest, I scavengerhunt for answers to my characters’ internal conflicts. When I find something expressive of my theme and overall goal of the plot, I go to work. Characters, settings, themes, and the five senses are my tools for my character’s self realization. And as all my characters are tiny subsets of my personality, I in turn gain self realization through turning pain and suffering in my own life into something understandable and fun in someone else’s. Sometimes during the wee hours of the night, you can find me traveling under the city lights, searching for potential story props and characters. For me, writing is the Alpha Omega of creation. It’s what makes me tick.
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