One day in primary school I wrote a story about turning into a seal and swimming in an underwater kingdom. I got a gold star for my story, but from those words on precious paper, a love and desire sprang forth with such reverent passion that I've never been able to resist since.
Like all whirlwind romances, I married writing in every aspect; from its bleary late night editing riots to its drunken stupor at four AM. There were weekends where writing and I would snuggle on the couch; content, happy, and fights of screaming over a badly chosen chapter, at a tough, backed-up scene and writing's inability to ever just behave like a socially normal skill.
Writing has taught me to look at the world; it has pushed my preconceptions to the limits and taken me to places, worlds, both in the reading and the imagining that amaze and startle. It has brought out a critical fascination and a sharp, functioning addiction to competition and recognition.
In my darkest days, writing has been with me; quietly, patiently waiting for me-and it has never judged me or told me to stop; even when our love seemed frantic and violent; when I was too afraid to embrace it on cold nights; or when writing tormented me with every idea and character threatening to explode.
That is my relationship to writing; tempestuous, caring, harsh, gentle, understanding, hateful... in a word; passionate.
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