Skin in the game.

That’s the most simplistic way that I can think of to describe what writing is like.

(Not that you even asked or wondered about the writerly life, but that is the very nature and prerogative of a writer: to answer questions that no one is asking- questions that you didn’t even realize you needed answers to)

There is something at stake each time I approach the blank page. Something on the line.

Skin. In. The. Game.

Each day I come to the blank page and I scrape dead skin from the surface, or let blood from my veins, or chisel out some stubborn piece between hard bone and sinew from which I can craft a new universe or tell a different story.  Each day I break open and leave a part of me behind – like  wearing a sparkly gold dress for New Years and leaving gold sequins everywhere (and on everybody) in your wake.  And then I wake up and do it all over again.

Skin in the Game.

Writing is spectacle. And performance art. Sometimes it’s catharsis.  It’s public nudity while holding up a mirror: this is what my wobbly bits look like beneath all of the pretty layers and I’ve got a suspicion that yours look the same.

Writing is indecent exposure. It is always me. Even when my protagonist is a skinhead named Kyle who lives in Wyoming. It’s still me when I write “no justice, no peace.” It’s me as I scribble this hurriedly on my iPhone before NyQuil- induced slumber sets.

Skin in the Game.

It’s the only way that I know to build a fire without matches.

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