The best place to write is in bed in the early morning with coffee and weed in the system. That's been scientifically proven to be the best way. Hydrated as well. Weed, coffee, water, pad, and a pen, and – boom – you're flying down the lines barely even touching the page and the pen takes over and soon there's nothing in the universe but that little river of black spilling outta the pen, that little, oh so specific river of words and emotions, metaphors, and inferred meanings.
Who am I to say that I know what the writing means? I am a bunch of muscles and tendons held together in skin with a nervous system just crazy enough to wrap itself around a pen every day and watch it make a mess on the page.
'Who am I?' asks the pen.
'Not me,' I answer, trying to hold it steady.
You and I are watching the same car wreck, dear reader. I have no more control over the words than you. You see, I forgot to read the terms and conditions. I gave up control twelve years ago when I sold my soul for a pen at two in the drunk morning in my parents' basement.
Since then it's lifted me, picked me up and propelled me forward, pushing me onto planes, trains, and automobiles in search of a story, for something to say. Follow the pen, friend, and it'll show you the world, encountering and engendering ideas you never imagined.
What does it mean to follow the pen? It means picking up a writing device – pencil, pen, crayon, Sharpie, quill, typewriter, BlackBerry, PalmPilot, Xbox controller, keyboard, Oculus Rift gauntlet, whatever, and fuckin following the words as they tumble outta your head.
Do you actually know who's in there? Ever had a conversation with yourself? Ask a page 'Who the fuck am I?' and see what bubbles up in response.
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