Writing – A Lot Like Bleeding

I saw a quote this morning:

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

It struck as so real to me I decided to actually do a little research to see if the credit to who said it was correct. The person quoted it as Hemingway, but after some quick research, I found out I was doing my duty by double-checking because it is not his quote. I then found the following web page.


So many writers talk about writing like it is the pouring of one’s blood from their body. I can’t agree more. I feel like the stories and words I put to “paper” (aka my blog) are a part of me. I feel like when I put them out there for the world to see a piece of me is leaving my body, never to return. That’s why the caption of my blog is “Releasing my soul one word at a time”. 

With each story I write, a piece of me floats through the data lines, converting to 0s and 1s before reaching your screen and, hopefully, touching you in some way. With each poem, I pluck a piece of me from my body and never expect that piece to be given back. Some days it hurts more than others. When it takes what feels like years for inspiration to hit. Or when I write something so completely honest my finger hovers over the publish button, gathering the courage before following through. Some days, when the idea has already been marinating in my imagination, I feel freed by the release of my “blood”.

You get my heart and soul. You get the part of me that few people close to me see. It is my secret world where I can free my mind without fear of failure. I can release toxins that are troubling me. I can set free moments of joy like doves at a wedding. I can let roam words found in dreams or nightmares. Finding the first words can be difficult, but once the first sentence is written, my heart and soul take over and they each give up a little bit to make my writing mean something.

That is why it feels so much like giving my blood. There’s a small pinch, but then the actual draw of blood takes little effort on my part. Once the turniquet has tightened and my fist is clenched, the needle pierces my skin and the words flow freely. Although the flow is effortless and I know where that part of me is going and that it will go put to good use, there is a part of me that wants to scream “No! It’s mine!”. But on the other hand, if I don’t let go, I won’t feel the sweet release of knowing someone somewhere is reading my words and getting enjoyment out of it.

I pray I do not bleed in vain.


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