The savage beauty of writing is that it’s the only legal way left to detonate your own brain in public without the fire department showing up. That’s the raw truth. I sit down with a coffee mug full of black sludge or whiskey if the gods are in a foul mood and suddenly the typewriter (or its modern glowing offspring, the keyboard) becomes a weapon. Every keystroke is a bullet fired into the padded walls of polite society.

What I enjoy most about writing? The chaos. The unfiltered license to bend reality, to stretch it, to beat it against the curb until it bleeds meaning. Writing lets you rip out your guts, slap them on the table, and arrange the mess into a sentence that somehow makes sense to someone else. That’s alchemy, brother. Madman’s magic.

There’s no editor in the moment of creation. No smug politician to silence you. Just the violent hum of your own brain clawing at the walls, demanding to be heard. Writing is a way to wrangle the madness, pack it into neat paragraphs like live grenades and toss them out into the world. Maybe they explode in someone else’s head, maybe they fizzle. Doesn’t matter. You’ve lit the fuse.

And beneath all the lunacy, the bloodshot eyes, the chemical haze, writing is freedom. Pure, uncut freedom. The kind that terrifies bureaucrats and comforts the brokenhearted. A blank page is the only arena where I can wrestle demons and walk away alive, grinning, and maybe even a little holy.

So what do I enjoy most about writing? It’s the last honest frontier. A high-speed chase through the desert with no seatbelt, no brake pedal, and the FBI on your tail. Terrifying, yes. But god almighty, it feels good to drive.