“It is only when you open your veins and bleed onto the page a little that you establish contact with your reader.”
I want to bleed for you.
To lay my scars bare and open.
I want my words to be visceral. They should churn inside your chest, turn your stomach molten, and drive your heart to beat with such force you feel it in your wrists.
I want to be that writer.
I just don’t know how.
It’s the reason I write about music up every Monday. I’m jealous. I envy the songsmiths and their ability to jerk a melody from the depths of my heart and pull an accompanying chorus from the demons hidden in the shadows of my mind.
They have it. I don’t.
I have self-deprecating humor.
I have copycat words and cookie cutter worlds.
I have impotent anger and passionate fear.
There is little brewing beneath the surface. My soul has no great depths to plunder, no vast treasuries of suffering I can lay out before the world.
I am empty.
So, I sit and write, looking for a way to tap some vein filled with precious rubies. It’s slow and painful. I hate every moment but I can’t stop.
By drive, instinct, obsession, or simple force of pure, stubborn will.
But not inspiration. Never inspiration.
Why do I do it? Why do I keep trying?
Because I can bleed.
I’ve bled before. I can do it again. Blood grows back. As long as the heart beats, it is an endless well.
And now I know my goal.
I want to bleed onto a page so I can make you bleed in your soul.