I don't really have a metaphor for how I write, but it kinda feels like chipping away at a big dark object that I can't really see.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
To some extent, I draw on what I see around me; in other places, I imagine what I write.
There's something about the shape that a poem takes in my mind before I write it that has to do with suddenness.
When I'm writing, sometimes it gets to that place where I feel like the piece is writing itself and I'm trying not to get in the way.
My feeling is that writing is, for me, a pathological condition. That could sound like a mystical experience, and it may be a mystical experience, but I have learnt just to go with it.
Writing is like a 'lust,' or like 'scratching when you itch.' Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I, for one, must get it out.
I write on a visual canvas, 'seeing' a scene in my thoughts before translating it into language, so I'm a visual junkie.
I think writing is really about a journey of understanding. So you take something that seems very far away, and the more you write about it, the more you travel into it, and you see it from within.
Sometimes I'll hear a phrase or a word and write it down in my little black notebook (a writer's best mate), then come back to it and work a plot around it.
Writing has always had that tactile quality for me. It's a physical experience.
Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.