On How I Write.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

Ernest Hemingway

I cannot write as I should. I can’t write fiercely, passionately, drunkenly. I cannot write in certainties and proclamations. Rather, I write in suggestions—softly and gently. I write in whispers and considerate tiptoes in the dead of night. I write in echoes and thoughts not brave enough to be said aloud. My intention is not for my writing to come alive. In fact, it has no intention; it simply is because it can’t not be.

I riddle my writing with question marks where there should be periods. I write in fragments and sentences, not in complete paragraphs. I cannot write to tell or to advise, just to share and for the sake of the words themselves. I write to reflect and not with the temerity of second person. There is no you here, only I. But it’s not the way you would think. I am not trying to be selfish. I just do not want to tell you what you may already know. I have no place in telling you things. But there I go, breaking my integrity. You are here now.

I should learn to write with certainty. To give unsolicited advice in the hope that it helps someone. Well, there’s still time. Maybe in my 30s.