I don’t write a little every day. I stay up for two days, sleep for twelve hours, and then repeat that for a month. That’s the rhythm. When it hits, I don’t pace myself. I disappear into it. My body is not a temple. I use it to write until the thing is done. Then I collapse, hard, and spend the next few weeks pretending to be a person while waiting for it to happen again.
When it’s working, it’s not a habit or a discipline. It’s a compulsion. I don’t sit down with an outline or a plan. I cancel whatever future existed before the sentence showed up. Sleep becomes an inconvenience, food becomes a hindrance, and my body turns into something I’m borrowing. This isn’t a metaphor. This is logistics.
During those days, language feels physical. Words have weight. Sentences arrive faster than judgment can ruin. I don’t polish. I don’t reconsider. I keep moving, because stopping would mean starting over. Lists, procedures, doors, routines—these aren’t stylistic tics, they’re a foundation. They keep the work upright while my nervous system is crackling.
I write until the material is exhausted. I do what it takes to outlast the lines. Then I crash. Twelve hours of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest so much as debt collection. After that comes the long, ugly part: the month where I can’t touch the work without flinching. I reread it like it was written by a stranger. Someone reckless. Someone sincere. Someone who used up all the electricity.
I don’t revise while I’m in it because I can’t tell the truth and dismantle it at the same time. Distance is necessary. I come back, and I’m ruthless. Anything that explains itself is out. Anything that feels proud of being clever goes. What stays is what itches.
People talk about sustainable practices. This isn’t one. I don’t recommend it. I don’t apologize for it. This is how the work arrives. I don’t coax it. I endure it. I don’t write to feel better. I write because something has taken over my attention and won’t let go until I’ve documented it.
I keep coming back to Stand Still Like the Hummingbird, not because it explains the process, but because it names the risk. Standing still takes an absurd amount of energy, and no one watching can tell how close you are to falling. When I’m not fixated, it looks like nothing is happening. Days pass. Pages don’t multiply. But internally, everything is working to keep me ready.
Structure. Architecture. Rooms. Lines. They don’t care about me, and that’s useful. I put my overclocked body inside something indifferent, and watch to see what shatters first. The comedy comes from friction. Meaning comes later, pretending it’s unimportant.
I write by burning hot, then going quiet. By letting one version of me do the damage and another version clean it up. It’s inefficient. It’s unsightly. It’s inelegant. It works.
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