Writing is a paradox—torture and wonder take turns influencing my mood as I sit at my desk for days trying to inject meaning to my wayward thoughts. An entire day of honest work could amount to three pages of beautifully written prose or one useless paragraph that can be erased from existence with a few keystrokes. Time is inconsequential when attempting to make sense of the world using only words.
During my adolescence and teens books enabled guilt-free escapism otherwise limited by strictly monitored PG-13 television shows and dial-up modem. Images and characters materialized in my mind as words poured in, giving life to a secret realm reserved only for my private thoughts . Writing is reliving this experience backwards: an endless rearrangement of sentences to complete a puzzle.