On Writing
I scratch on the wall of my prison, daily, nightly, for I am a writer. Nothing less, nothing more am I. These scratchings, they tell a story if only you will listen, and like all prisoners, words set me, set us, free.
I find myself 29 days out from publication of What Binds Us, my debut novel from Carina Press and I find most often people―writers and non-writer's alike―ask most often about the experience of writing. Here is my somewhat feeble attempt to explain my writing experience.
God whispers in the open shell of my ear. Words fall like tears, like snow, piling up, forming a soft carpet, impossible as a dream; or harder, an ice-packed snowball. Words fall, louder, faster―almost faster than I can write them down―forming sentences, the sentences anxious, rising up: a story waiting to be told.
I find myself 29 days out from publication of What Binds Us, my debut novel from Carina Press and I find most often people―writers and non-writer's alike―ask most often about the experience of writing. Here is my somewhat feeble attempt to explain my writing experience.
God whispers in the open shell of my ear. Words fall like tears, like snow, piling up, forming a soft carpet, impossible as a dream; or harder, an ice-packed snowball. Words fall, louder, faster―almost faster than I can write them down―forming sentences, the sentences anxious, rising up: a story waiting to be told.
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Larry Benjamin's blog - This Writer's Life
The writer's life is as individual and strange as each writer. I'll document my journey as a writer here.
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