I love writing. I love the sound of clacking keys and the scent of ink. I adore the alchemical symphony of putting words together in different combinations to make something entirely new.
But I dread writing, too. Dread it.
That love and dread causes an uncomfortable dissonance. It haunts me and makes me question whether or not I really want to write. If I did, shouldn’t it be something easy? Something I just do? I’ve wrestled with those thoughts for years.
But I finally figured it out.
I sometimes dread writing because I’m afraid that if I sit down to do it, the fucking aliens will come get me.
Bookstores are filled with books concerning how to achieve that magical state in any discipline. What those books forget to tell you, however, is that regardless of how amazing it may be when you are chest-deep in it, it’s absolutely terrifying when you come out of it.
When you come back to reality.
You pass through the wardrobe, come back behind your eyes, and have no idea where you’ve been. You ask, what the hell happened? How did the clock move so far ahead without your noticing? How many things did you miss? How did the world continue when you weren’t in it? Your bearings are a mess. You start thinking maybe they were right about the flashbacks of LSD, and everything just feels–weird.
You realize that you are missing time.
You know who else suffers bouts of missing time?
Alien abductees.
But I’m on to those little gray bastards now.
You see, there is no such thing as the muses or the flow state. No. It’s the aliens whisking me away for some right proper probing while some dude with big eyes bangs away at the keyboard, so there are words on the screen, so I don’t suspect anything when they send me back.
Think I’m paranoid? That maybe I’ve taken to locking myself into a bedroom where I sip my own urine while wearing my tin foil hat?
You wait.
You wait and see what the government reveals in the future and remember that you read it all first…
Paranormal Pressings 
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