The passion to write is like a disease. It infects your brain, takes over your whole body, and flares up at, sometimes, the most random or inconvenient times. It’s always there, too; it’s with you like an autoimmune disorder. Not even the highest priest in the land could exorcise it.
It does not care what your gender is, nor your sexual orientation, ethnicity, or disability. Even if you lost both of your hands in a lawn mowing accident- it doesn’t matter. All passion cares about is that you have two left brain cells and the capability of somehow getting your words onto the page.
It just doesn’t care. It’s reckless. It destroys lives. It builds them. It’s an ugly illness with a blessed disguise.
Writing does not care. Passion does not care.
And that’s my rant of the day.