So what happens when you write, I mean really write, from your gut? And you hold nothing back? And you commit to doing this writing thing. Every day. It may be that the voices in my head (my blogging me?) never stop talking. They are a soundtrack to my day; always on, bad Muzak. Like caffeine that will not let your brain shut off and sleep, or focus, or be present in the now. Mindfulness is fucked. How can you be fully present in your life while you are writing, always writing, in the back of your head? What if it takes me right over the edge? And I don’t really ever come back? What if I give in to this writing opiate and live the rest of my life in some dual reality, two brains firing pistons and neither really centered and focused? Hmm. It is like staring down the needle. Or the bottle. Or the pipe. What happens if I “go there”? Will the world be a better place if I spill the contents of my brain onto a page? What sort of unknown dimensions will be released? The Kraken of all demons or the Nymphs of Nirvana, or both, doing some sort of eternal dance? I am sure it is no coincidence that so many writers become addicts, bloated alcoholics, and go insane. Or is that when the writing – the good stuff – is dredged up? Blinders off, inhibition be damned, I am going to write. This could get ugly.