Method to My Madness

For one to become a worthy scribe, to master the enchantment of words, some madness must creep in. The right amount of madness must find space in the mind and brew intently, before the ghouls that tend to it may flow through the pen in the writer’s hand to form a masterpiece of literature.

I do not desire the madness. To desire madness is to be mad. It is to lose one’s mind, and who is to say the mind will be found again. Once unscrewed, some bolts may decide to wander free, or a nut may decide not to fit just as right as it had before. I remain adamant; I do not desire the madness. I only want to bring to life the characters that have outlived my imagination, those who have outgrown the spaces inside my head and must now find a new home. Yet I cannot achieve the inebriation without partaking of the communion.

A writer can never just leave the mind be. There is constant need to rearrange the way we see ordinary things. We must learn to not only listen to the things left unsaid, but to sniff out the details yet to be thought as well. One must see every strains of light in a dark sky and the shadows that refuse to conform. Writing, creative writing, must result from the perceptions of the third eye, from the resilience of a mind that insists on the imperfection of perfection. It is such keenness that separates the grain from the chaff. This is the absolute madness.