My introductory essay for the AYL (Architect Your Life) blog is a playfully meta one: it is about – yet also elevated above – the writing process itself. After all, to be a writer is the hardest thing in the world when it requires a painful amount of self-awareness and even more time alone.
Writing is the lonely art.
No one else can write about your personal truth, your secret voice, your desire to convey what lies under the skin to an audience only you are privy to. You have to be the mirror to the world within and around you. And only then can the writer elucidate on the virtues of objective truth. The writer wears around her neck – both a gift and a stone of burden – the collective histories of the human race.
So please excuse me while I take a literal and metaphorical journey without telling anyone but you. I promise to come back with more books, living things, and dead things for the delirium Imaginarium I call home. My writer’s duty involves a form of necromancy wherein the dead come back to life in surprising ways.
My writing and art are characterised by weird synchronicity. They wound and heal one another until inspiration for what I do comes and goes as quickly as the blood dries. Intuition flies fast at night with unfurled wings of superlative light, across sketchbooks of soon-to-be-finished work on my escritoire, their spines singing electric in passing.
An expanse of emotion is necessary for creation, and so I paint over my darker-than-black tendencies with impasto strokes of childlike optimism and neurological chiaroscuro – my intuition vs intellect, sensuality vs spirituality, forever oscillating between worlds above and below.
Two kinds of storytelling resonate because they matter to the human condition: heroic or anti-heroic narratives of good fantasy and science fiction depicting humanity’s internal and external conflicts; and children’s stories reminding us to come to celebrate our time here and now, and the freeing truths of who we are and where we are going.