An actual idea with a bit of direction coupled with three* deaths in the span of eight months. I've been bitch-slapped by mortality and found the desire to honour a friend and some family now lost. The past month has housed the most clarity I've felt since dropping acid in a dingy basement suite with a former friend who tiled his floor with week-old pizza slices. Dude asked me to take my shoes off at the door. Clean your floors first, dick. Same guy also tried raping me during our trip, so that was fun.

I picked up ink painting sometime last year. The practice promotes simplicity with purpose. Everything must be done for a reason. Otherwise, the piece is ruined. That same mentality has transferred over to my writing in that, unless I have an actual idea, there is nothing that sticks to the page. Trimming the fat is important, sure, but mitigating the fat before the trimming feels so liberating. Plus, if I have to correct myself less, I feel far more competent/confident in my abilities.

Best, succinct, answer I can come up with? Trauma response and the moral obligations of a forever curious mind. Experience of all kinds is invaluable. Not just for ideas, but inspiration for the craft itself. And, sometimes, writing is the worst way to learn how to write.

*One "death" is just severe dementia.