My best writing goes unpublished.

Some is written down physically, and sent away.

Some is locked away. Consigned to eternal draft hell.

Some is published under an anonymous pen name.

Reading that work back occasionally feels as if it was written by someone else. Written by the Frenetic Scribbler within me.

The Bleeding Writer within me.

It’s my best work and yet I take no pride in it.

Because my best is also my worst.

Writing is at its best when backed by strong emotion.

Perhaps the strongest emotion of all is pain.

Writing is not pain. But it flows from it.

All writers bleed, in a way.

But writing also lets you control the pain. Control it…and yet unleash it.

Let the words flow like blood!