Writers live life tucked safely under a bundle of lies.
Harmless lies. White lies. But lies, nonetheless.
We lie about our names, commission "nome de plumes", and keep our identities a secret. We create worlds and spin tales that could not possibly be, but for the smudgy trails of magic a pen leaves on the lines of a notebook. We have friends that never existed, go places we've never been, and felt things we may never, ever feel.
Why?
I write to be honest. To bare my soul where no person in real life will be able to understand my desire to fly, to disappear, to breathe underwater, or to hear people's thoughts. I paint pictures of the places I so desperately want to visit and inhabit; pictures of bleak, snowy mountaintops and lush vermilion valleys. I create the friends I never had and the versions of myself that are impossible. In my lies lay the absolute truths of my soul's desires.
Writing is wishing, and wishes are harmless little lies we tell ourselves in order to get out of bed the next morning.
I write so that my readers know the truth; so that, maybe, someone will truly know me before I shuffle off this mortal coil...
--AK
ns 15.158.61.20da2
