On my Writing Process

I don't have one.

There are some ways of talking about writing that make me feel a little nauseous.

Sometimes, I admit, I’ve caught myself talking about my writing process or, even worse, my creative process.

This is most likely because I’ve just been asked,

So tell us about your creative process?

and I haven’t wanted to be rude, and challenge the questioner on the terms of their question.

If they’re kind enough to ask, I’m going to be grateful enough to answer.

But now that no-one’s asking, I can say what I think is wrong, is off.

I’m not a thing that processes.

I’m not a computer and I’m not a royal cavalcade.

I’m less definite than that.

At best, I’m a thing.

I’m a thing that lollops across the hours of books and fields of speech, picking out words and chewing words and digging out their roots and dropping words.

I’m a thing that runs scared into the undergrowth and squats there as the evening gets darker and the strange sounds start up.

What?

I’m a thing that gazes at other kinds of thing, all other kinds of better thing, wondering how I could become that kind of thing.

Can you call that a process? These wild images?

Perhaps, perhaps not.

I’m an absolutely ridiculous thing, and my instinct is to have as little dignity or presence as possible.

I’m a thing that doesn’t know what kind of thing it is.

A writing thing.

But imagine if I said that aloud.