Writing is a lover

April 5, 2018


I’m not good at writing consistently, or with discipline. For years, when people asked, I would say I wrote 2,000 words every day, at the same hour, drinking the same tea. It was a lie — a lie to hide the shame. I write in the dark, at odd hours, with a too-bright screen. I avoiding writing, because writing is both a joy and a job and I’m afraid — the same way I’m afraid of a rollercoaster. And the same thrill fills my bones when I’m finally engaged in the act, when words emerge with each stroke of a finger. Writing is a lover I cannot look in the face until we’re in the throes of passion. Writing comes together, or it doesn’t, a sculpture I pick at, until I swear it looks human. Writing is getting to mix all my metaphors and then using time later to edit and smooth and polish. Writing is rough. My desk reflects these small battles and remind me of the power of raw affect: Figurines from pop culture, dog treats to bribe creatures into loving me on command, empty cans of diet beverages that contain way too much aspartame. I write in my head when I’m not writing, the hamster constantly running. But I write, ultimately, because I do, because that’s what I do, because what else could I do?

Adriana e Ramírez
8th March 2018