I love writing to the point that it almost feels like torture. Whenever I read, I get reminded to write. There is rarely a day where I do not get the urge to write. It is only a matter of knowing and feeling what to write.

My muse is memory. Some days my muse is a dream. Everything I write is seen through my lens, overblown, bursting through the seams; so if I do end up having a muse, it would be a bit unfair to make the poetry about them as individuals when it’s mostly just my mind doing its thing. Less of a muse, but more of the feeling.

Through the years, my writing has slowed down immortalizing people. Now, I only preserve the emotions I’ve felt through certain experiences.

More times than I can count! Especially when I’m dealing with real, heavy emotions that almost consume me if I sit too still. Ironically, when I feel like I have so much to write or express, I distract myself with other activities. My first mode of action is to quiet the noise, so I can easily dissect it for later and translate it into words.

Yes! I’d love to see you spot them all. They’re like little easter eggs I drop. It’s an engaging reminder that the pieces are happening and existing in the same universe.

You can try bridging my independent pieces and read a story unfold.

My process has definitely shifted through the years, and what once was an almost intrinsic habit that I could do for hours, has more or less morphed into an arduous task these recent years. A quest that now takes months to regain creative pacing and momentum in — especially after experiencing loss and my gradual estrangement with honest self expression. 

But years prior to my decline as a writer, before a part of myself has calcified to protect what’s left of me, my process used to be easier. More fluid. 

Sensitivity enabled me to simply type the first train of thought, or excerpt of an idea on my phone (usually the closest and most convenient device as a modern writer) when a memory pops up and it somehow leaves a distant feeling I’ve almost forgotten – and because I don’t want to forget how I feel in that moment, and the yearning to immortalize the aching nostalgia festers, I begin writing. 

I love the fact that I can create something more, something bigger, from a piece of myself, a shred of a memory, a dream – and write it out as a piece of literature. It’s as if I’m weaving something new from an existing piece of cloth that was once lovingly worn. 

As cliché as it sounds, like any writer, I start writing when I’m struck and overwhelmed with inspiration.

“This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.”  – Kafka

I’ll keep my answer short and simple. To be able to hold my written work in my hands, to sift through the pages of my own mind, to share a physical piece of myself with someone else — that is one of my ultimate goals on this planet. I also understand that this process takes time, an immense amount of pressure, trial and error, and a lifetime’s worth of self reflection.

Learn constantly. Always try to improve your writing. Get to know what you like. Absorb and critic the material like a sponge when you read. I think those are some of the habits that really helped me in developing my style through the years. I’m simply an amalgamation of everything I like to consume.

I have the same question in mind.

But it’s most likely the consistency. I just stubbornly never stopped even when no one was reading. This traction and audience didn’t happen over night.