Why did I start writing in the first place? It often bothers me that I don't have a concrete answer to this question, but I do cling to fragments of the first feelings I had putting chicken scratch to paper. I would write in notepads in the backseat of my mom's green Mazda before I needed glasses and began a lifelong bitter companionship with motion sickness. I remember the colour of the cover, the gel pen crossing over spelling mistakes, even the topic of my first ever story. Moppy the Flower: a 4-year-old's rendition of The Ugly Duckling starring the titular wilting flower.
If I can remember the flashes of that feeling, why can't I fully realize the planted moment in time when writing became my passion?
Man, I don't know. No one in my family is a writer. There aren't any signs I can recall that would explain where my desire to write comes from. I have a stack of drafts across my life so tall it could rival the giant ball of twine, but hardly any of them will ever become anything I return to. Somewhere in the earliest and foggiest years of my life, I fell in love with words. I do keep a list of favourites! My hope for DRAFT NONE is that my body and brain can rid themselves of the traditional idea of a draft. There is more vulnerability in what is first said, not what is looked back upon with the goal to "improve."
I'm not saying editing isn't vital to the process, but I do think sometimes, for me personally, I lose myself in overanalyzing my work. In the pursuit of praise or validation, I worry I sometimes lose the plot, y'know? I will always be a watchful-eyed editor for my work, which will never change, but with this blog, I hope to fling myself into discomfort and allow whatever is on my mind at a given moment to exist as is its right. If you'd like to come along with me, I'd love that a lot :)
With mushy love,
PJ
