Sometimes I think back to the early days when I first started writing. It’s very safe to say that when I started, I embodied most of the stereotypical qualities thought to belong to most writers.
I started writing on a very serious and formal level in mid to late 1998. At the time I was going through a very emotional time in my life. I was clinically depressed; I relied upon the large amounts of coffee and sugary beverages just to be able to function. I wrote poetry as an escape and suffered for my writing. I foolhardily believed that it wouldn’t be good writing if I didn’t suffer for it, and stay up late into the night trying to create fabulous works, the likes of which nobody would ever read because in the morning after I would find ridiculous and unfounded fault with what I had written and destroyed the pages I had written upon.
Today my writing sets me free and I’m no longer suffering to create it. Although most of the stereotypical writer traits no longer apply to me, I still subscribe to the notion that the archaic romanticism of the age-old writer still holds some validity. Ideally I would love to have access to my very own writers studio, complete with the candelabra on the desk along side of a short stack of books with an old skull atop them as a paperweight, just as Da Vinci himself was rumored to have done. Perhaps some archaic and timeless traditions in a writers life never change.