I believe in writing that whispers. I believe in writing that doesn’t shout to get your attention. It snaps, only once.


To beckon you in, to draw you closer.

To lean in, to hold eye contact.

To listen, writer to reader.

Voice to voice.

If you can’t hear it, draw a little closer. I’ll wait. Are you listening? Good.


I believe in writing that sometimes snaps like the keys of an antiquated typewriter, in words formed by the inky letters that crack to attention under the bloodstained fingertips of the typist. I believe in writing that flows like blood, pulsing and sticky, metallic and warm. When the midnight sky compresses like deep water and the pain oppresses lungs and robs breath, I believe in words written in blood. When the bloodstained clothes that no one sees spell out ALONE in bold letters on a darkened mind, I believe in writing that heals.

I believe we write to know we are not alone.

I believe in sentences like sawdust. Like sawdust that settles on all the surfaces and in all the crevices of the mind, waiting to be collected, swept, and formed in any which way. The dusty pixels of stories passed from writer to reader. Like sawdust that coats the mind after the images fade, the remnant of emotions, ideas, truth.

I believe in novels that smell like the tips of colored pencils on fire with the friction of creation. Burning from the sensation of creating order out of disorder. Reason from pain. I believe in writing that fosters peace in the midst of uncertainty, hope in the midst of despair.

I do not believe in writing that is bombastic in its approach. Works that shout on street corners and in subway tunnels, that demand acknowledgement, affirmation, attention. I do not believe in novels that swear promises. Not promises of sensuality nor cheap thrills nor happy endings.

I believe in writing that simply is.

Writing that whispers, draws you in. Sentences that require you to press your ear to the page and listen, to breathe the echoes of a once-living organism, resurrected by ink and blood.

I believe in writing that does not need you, but wants you. Truth does not require an audience. But it wants you, to heal you if it can, to direct you when it can’t.

I believe in stories that we need. I believe in writing His story, not mine.


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