For me, there is no pleasure in writing. I dread it. But I’m emotionally compelled to write. I have missed writing since I quit journalism. In Toronto, I blogged every week for more than a decade and stopped only when I was diagnosed with cancer.
I love the physical aspect of writing, my fingers tap-tap-tapping on the keyboard. I love the sound, and I love the feeling. I also really enjoy research. As a kid, I wanted to become a private detective, maybe that’s why. It’s not only the process of research that pleases me but the feeling of depth that comes with knowing that I’ve given a songbird the right kind of nest.
Magic realism is the first level in a series of writing gambits – culminating in meta-fiction – that bring out the “falseness” of attempts to identify a piece of writing with the furniture of the world. The act of writing creates a new world, even when it appears very similar to the old.
I would simply say I am writing towards decolonization. My goal is to push forward a space where all that sort of otherness stuff that makes up my essence has a home. When I say otherness, I speak both as a Lenape turtle clan citizen. And that otherness is a self-essence that is built from the language, culture, and experiences of being that Lenape in an urban late 20th century, early 21st century Native guy kind of way.
Writing about the horror and sorrow of my husband’s death took me to the edge of the abys. Writing about some of my failures is humbling. As I write about various achievements and adventures, I know many others have accomplished greater feats.
I see writing as in constant conversation with itself, with other books, and with how other creators see writing. The best books, to me, inspire more writing.