There's a lot of blood on the keyboard. Yeah, Pounding words out. And, sometimes for hours or days there are just no words. It's like a silent, starving, icy lake of fear that end up letting me go from some sort of wicked solitary confindment. I often wake up with gnawing sensations of dissatisfaction and feel instant fear only to find that I am aware of resistance. I often ask myself if my writing is really attached to my name and I often want to erase all of what I've ever written. The GODS know the ultimate sin is not murder or rape, but pride. So I sit and I just consider myself a gun for hire, a mercenary. Those thoughts then purge pride and preciousness. Do I really believe my work is crucial to the planets' survival? No. Hell no. Of course not. Do I believe I have the luck of the Irish? Yes. It's in my blood. Two leprachans are always on my shoulder, one with a halo and one with horns. Seriously. My work is as important to me as the hawk circling outside my window. My work is hungry. She needs the kill. So I do it. And, I go to sleep content with all this blood splattered on the keyboard. It isn't easy spilling blood. But, I will wake up again tomorrow and write again. Home from the hill, offerings from the kill.
All the warrior can give is their life.
The Enemy is a very good teacher ~~~ The Dali Lama