About Amy Grace

I have bled.

As far back as I have tangible memories, I recall sitting at a desk before a blank page and just bleeding. An when I look a the work that I have produced after a productive writing session, I do not see words: I see blood.

I see blood and tears and laughter and sweat and my heart and soul smeared across the canvas. It spills over onto my desk, stains the wood and even trickles down onto the floor. It seeps into the floorboards, sinks into the carpet. My bedroom smells of it.

My writing has wormed its way into every corner of my life; it has greedily consumed my entire identity. I write because I want to: because it brings me joy and offers a form of escapism. I write because I need to: because I will dry up if I don’t.

And now, for the first time, I want to share all that I have bled. I want to share it with you.

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