In Open Wounds there is a letter written from Lefty to Cid that was one of the most difficult pieces of writing I’ve ever done. It was difficult because it was so painful to write. It is a letter of madness, loss, and love written by someone who could never say the words out loud. Even now when I read it I can feel my heart ache. I don’t know if it’s a great piece of writing – but I do know when I read it I believe that Lefty wrote it and that I did not. Does that sound strange to you? It does to me. My publisher, Evelyn, said to me today that she thinks sometimes people pull from the great unconscious when they write. I don’t know if there’s a great cosmic unconscious – though I’d like to believe there is and I really like the phrase cosmic unconscious. But Lefty’s words came from some part of me and I don’t know where or what that part is. It hasn’t happened too often in my writing.
I re-read my book again for the last edit a couple of weeks ago and I found myself drawn to that letter again. In his blog ghostmedicine, Andrew Smith talks about being in love with his latest book, Stick (soon to be released). I wrote to him that it makes sense that writers love their work because it is such intimate work and pulls from intimate places within us – places not easily explored.