I feel so overflowing with ideas and I love it. This is when I am happy. This is when I am real. This is when I am me.

I am me when I have half-a-dozen articles that I wanna write and six novels I can read in my skull and need to translate into word docs and a ton of short films I want to direct and plenty of features I want to write and all sorts of things flowing out of me, images I need to splash across canvas like blood or an evening sky, a red sky at night meaning sailor’s delight, or however that rhyme goes. I am me when I am 40,000-something words into the first draft of a novel after just a few weeks of progress and have spec scripts done and tons of poems done and I am dying, needing, striving to get these things out of me and into something others can perceive.

I love it. I love this. I love the creativity that won’t stop being inside of me. I love this freedom. I love this sense of limitless wonder and joy and euphoria and challenge and production and tangible proof of something that once existed only as a certainty within my head that is now something outside of it. I love it. I love it all so much. I love writing. Writers who say they love to write but act like they hate writing make no sense to me. All I truly love is writing. It’s everything else that seems so difficult to me. I don’t get those people. Do they just want to vanity of it? I don’t know. I am at my happiest when I am written into a corner and fighting to make a plot thread satisfy. I am at my fullest when I am fending my way through a second act and striving to get to that third that I’ve been dreaming of since I penned the first word of the first. I am at my richest when I am rewriting, having made the clay in the first draft and crafting it into a statue in the second or the third or the fourth.

I fucking love writing. I fucking love making things. I fucking love sketching and drawing and painting and making things. I love making things. I love feeling like a servant to ideas. I love feeling like I am humbled by my art. I love feeling like I know why I exist, and that I can prove it. This is all I want to be. This is all I want to do. The rest is research and noise and inspiration and obligation. I am so honestly, sincerely happy when I am doing this. I love when I am meditating and struggling to keep a clear head because too many ideas are flooding me. I love when I am falling asleep and leap up alone in bed, reaching for a notebook or a fresh iPhone note to jot down the new thing I know I must make a reality that I can share with someone else. I love it. I love it so much. It’s not always simple. It’s not always easy. But I can do it. I can do it. And I love to do it. This is me, goddamn it. This is me.

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