The words are both a cover-up and an unveiling. I write what I know, but I take poetic license. I am frank, but I also fudge the truth. Simply put, I create. I control, I claim, I can't help but commiserate with the self I choose. Which self will I express sadness for today? Which self will I celebrate?
And I inebriate the text. I get the paragraph drunk and take advantage of it. I punctuate the exceptional and cut out the casual. Give me a sentence not up to speed and I will weed out the sluggish. I want it to move. I want it to run right off the page and into an unknown horizon. My writing will, ideally, become a stranger to myself. It will set and I will watch; it will rise and I will see.
But for the reader I expect nothing more than their time. Give me one minute to prove that words can soothe even the most temperamental souls. Give me one hour to shower your head with ideas that will lift your everyday life into lands bizarre and troublesome and ultimately rewarding.
But don't give me a medal just yet. I haven't proven a thing to you and especially not to myself. I'm still struggling with the rough draft.