I write at home and in work. I write on the bus and on the train.
I don’t write while driving the car because that’s bad karma.
I write in the morning, at night, and sometimes in the afternoons, but I hate writing in the afternoon.
I write with phone, my voice, on notepads and Moleskines (I once even write about Moleskines) and on the back of Post-Its.
I write on scraps of paper (God I love a great piece of blank paper), on the back of receipts, bills bank statements and even on beer mats.
I write while watching films and TV shows and making dinner. I write online, and I write in the woods. I write connected and disconnected, plugged, unplugged, wired and stone-cold sober.
It’s always easier stone-cold sober.
I write on laptops and computers old and new. I write on Macs and PCs, I write with broken pens and unsharpened pencils.
I write in the notes app on my phone, in WordPress, on Medium, Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn and in every other box that fills my screen.
I write with broken things about broken things and for broken people. I write for myself.
I write until my head aches, and my heart spins.
So, I take a break...
Where was I?
I’m on the toilet with one leg hunched over the other, a pen in my hand and an idea to chase down.
Come catch me Bryan…
I’m trying baby, slow down!
I write for food. I write for money. I write to pass the time. I write when I’m bored, lonely, angry tired. Somedays, I don’t write much of anything at all.
And that’s always worse.
I write in my head and people turn and ask me “What are you thinking about?”
“Don’t disturb me, I’m writing man, can’t you see?”
“You’re so crazy,” they say.
But I don’t care. I just write on and on.
It never stops.