Jack Kerouac wrote The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Madness. Writers are supposed to be mad, crazy, unhinged. Kerouac was. Ginsberg too. Hemingway – yup, he was an untamable force. That force – I guess it’s passion, an unyielding desire to grasp life and swallow it whole then ooze it from our pores and spread it on all and everything. Passion. Writers are supposed to possess it by the bucket load. Well, I don’t – at least not as Kerouac did, or Hemingway. My passion breathes behind an old gate that bars the world from what I consider precious, my family and home. It’s that passion, that love that blesses me with stability. Upon that stability, I find tremendous adventure. I visit other worlds with my son. I fly with dragons and wield lightsabers and swords. I marvel at the young lady my little girl has become. I hold hands with my wife and feel all that love is meant to be. Upon that stability, because of that stability, that rock, I write. My family balances me, holds fast my spirit as my pen and imagination reach and reach.
Just call me crazy. Call me mad.