Writing is a craft.

It’s a beautiful, dirty, ugly, thing. You write. You rip up the paper. You think it will be the final draft. You read it. It’s awful. You become a recluse. Writing is deciding who your audience will be many times over. It’s your ego. Writing glorious vomit, prolific, exact, descriptions of life, more perfect than film.

We slowly needle ourselves when we preselect our audience, when we choose success before we even touch the paper. Instead of the first draft, we start with the final draft. Instead of taking risks, we avoid embarrassments. Instead of writing off ignorant critics, we cower under each word they say.

We are beautiful people, with beautiful minds. To express ourselves, we must start from freedom. These words are your wings.