It’s 8:58am (by the clock that wakes me up every morning, screaming like a banshee and 9 minutes fast) and so it seems to be about time to start writing about my writing about the way I write about myself. This seems almost blissfully self-indulgent and self-serving to get to introspect so far to try to understand why we do what we do—why I do what I do—what it is, this “mystery called writing.” It is the product of a necessity, and comes from no other source. Though necessity Itself originates from a multitude of places.

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Ear candy is the belief that on their most fundamental level, words are meant to be heard and are meant to be beautiful. I want to know that the words of this story carry enough cadence and rhythm and music intrinsic in them that they could exist apart from their meanings. That if all the letters I strung together merely made noises instead of notions, people would stay to hear the music.

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