A Writer's Artist Statement

All in the Golden Afternoon

I am but a corvid. Whatever sparkles in the sunlight is devoured by my eye. To be a writer is to read. There is nothing I would not attempt to consume, but that is not to say I do not have personal taste. Existentialism grounds me, an intangible plane that Kundera presented and Kafka perpetuated. It was Peter S. Beagle that introduced fantasy literature, setting the framework for my particular taste for nonsense. I became inspired by idioms, wordplay, and puns, utilizing definition and rule to rearrange the expectation of a phrase. Psychological horror is an intersection of these whimsical delights, contorting the grotesque into the frivolously overthought.  

There is not yet a great masterpiece, a memoir or manifesto of my beliefs that is definitive and true. Although it has not been organized as such, the words that I craft as individual pieces are connected in unseen ways. My anthology is augmented with each poem, documented dream, email, great idea promptly forgotten, opinion, and perspective. Unintentional wording, word without thought, is riddled with subconscious and should be revered appropriately. Even my non-textual work insists upon involving text. Stamped onto garments or scrawled in metal on metal, there is always more to say. 

It is often the urge to write that strikes before the sentence itself. The ink bleeds into letters when they plan on speaking for themselves. “You think too much!” is what they often have to say. They can be shrill. While occasionally galling, they have a point. Instead of me, I let the pen do the thinking. Focusing on my handwriting instead of the words. When looking to call upon them for a purpose, I converse with myself aloud to see what is to be said (this may be considered the verbal version of the previous method). 

Writing is not only necessary but inevitable—there is an urgency that feels passionate instead of panicked. The principal is perennial, positively kismet. I have a better grip upon the reality of each sentence with each one that I write, so I may just go on and on and on. And on and on until I may rule in the place of King Azaz.

I cannot foresee a future in which I am not writing. Despite me, there are Words.