On writing, and madness.

Lord Byron, you pulled the words right out of my fingertips.

I believe that most of my favorite writers are mad.

Mad with love for the craft. Mad with obsession for their talent.

Mad with passion, mad with imagination, madly intoxicated with the power they have over language. Mad with the power to control chaos and build literary order out of proper diction, syntax, and grammar.

And then, presumably, when they cannot find the right words to express themselves like I so often fail to do -- presumably, they get mad like I do, too. Mad with frustration and mad at themselves. Mad at the world for not inspiring them more, and mad at their lives for not giving them something more to write about.

I used to make excuses for not writing as often as I would like to. For not writing about the people and places and fantasies and theories I want to write about, the way I want to write it and let it play out. But here's to hoping that things will change soon enough: I went to an event by myself and met a woman. And then I met another, and joined a writing group tonight. I am admittedly a little nervous, but most of all, I am curious and excited.

It'll be like Creative Writing class all over again, where we sat around in circles and shat on each other's stories, tearing each other's beloved works to pieces, when really, I think it was more because we were mad that we weren't the ones to come up with that brilliant plotline ourselves.