“Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds.”
— Franklin D. Roosevelt
As writers we spend countless hours in a cell of our own making. Scratching our stories against stone walls until our fingertips are raw and bloodied, our nails having been worn to ash and grime and dust. Yet each mark, each wavy and uncertain indentation, is a testament that we are alive. We were here. That scraggly and crooked line running parallel to a crack in the mortar will remain long after our bones are swept into the cement mix for the prison cell next door.
I’m not sure why we do it. There’s very little chance of financial reward.
Notoriety. Fame. These are the footfalls we hear in the middle of the night, echoing through a hallway that never leads to our cell. And yet each day we rattle closed our own prison door, choking down the key anew and sharpening the tips of bones now jutting through the ends of our fingers. For one more inconsistent and wavy mark.
Perusing this blog is akin to peering through a peep hole into my own personal prison. Don’t worry, I’m quite comfortable here, and there’s still wall space to spare.
My goal here is to connect with like-minded prisoners — authors, readers, musicians and creative souls too tortured to ever stop the self-flagellation. I’ve done the whole pseudo-name thing in the past but figured since no one ever discovered the fake me they might as well not discover the real me.
So join me. Pull up a cot, or a chair, or a toilet basin with no lid, as we enjoy every second we can spare in this prison of our own making. We may just discover that only within these four narrow walls are we truly able to walk free.
— The Behrg