Savage Innocence

Hemingway once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” But there is more than that.

If one is brave enough to call oneself a writer – and by that I mean a true writer and not an individual who, in the sphere of endless solipsism, spits their thoughts onto a page without care or concern for anything beyond the need to get them out and reach an audience – one must also be brave enough to be vulnerable amongst strangers. One must not only bleed – and bleed profusely. One must surrender, arms raised and naked in the hostile throng.

I confess this: I was once a writer. Writing was my love and I loved it deeply and so much that I cared very little about anything else. But then, very quietly and because I could no longer bear the excruciating pain of pulling apart the details of life with words, I stopped.

This is my white flag.