LeSieur's Writing Process

In place of where a being's heart would be, he visualizes a massive, gaping black canyon, a pit, a hole, a chasm, a vortex so lacking in light and motion and so deep in depth that it fails to emit even gravity. It is a maw that does not devour. It is a darkness which can not be seen. It is a bleak black bleary baseless bottomless blot in his mind.

It is a home of sorts.

Filling the rim and half of this endless void is a cauldron of size and volume unmeasurable, black like the pit, but not black as the pit; it is a matte, and does not reflect the light with its rusted and oft-browning flaking metal surface, but neither does it utterly reject it. The rim of the pot rests circular as the pit expands jaggedly in both directions a short distance, although the power of the pit is not in width, or in length, or truly height, but in the abyssal abyss of its own existence, in the plunge past Hell to Madness. Turpentine and serpentine streams of torpid teeming vapor stream from the turbulent burning churning of the contents of the pot in the pit, which blaze with lies as bright as rainbows, imaginings as wild and as fancied as the flitting fliers of the velvet vapor seas without him, despairs as black and weighted as the cannon's tonner-balls, and brief sparks and hopes and loves as white and shining as the gleaming glistening glimmer of the Elf-Star Alimor'.

Green roils from the black and brown, steam in verdant virulent vicious viscous vaporous villainous vim and vigor wafting in slips as slippery and sinisterly solid as a heavy fog, flowing up and trailing down the pot into the pit. It meets the damp crying yellow sky and clouds of gray imagined at some height from the pot and pit of dreams and thoughts and motives, and when the great green gas strikes with the heavy hammer force of emotion upon the silvery sigil of the darker gray and heavy hefting clouds, a rain as bitter and as black a red as garnet falls, the blood of a new idea pouring and spilling into the birthing thought pot and thrilling, chilling, willing, spilling to and from the core unto the core.

When an idea rises from the pot, it is not thought, it is not considered, it is not worked; it will either rise uncomplete but fully formed, awaiting correction and ascertaining, or it will plunge and drown within it's birthplace, never to be seen again. The great and glorious bubbles rise from his mind and his pit of shame and blame to seek a name, rolling rounder than celestial bodies and meshing in one as many emotions and words as they can capture from their origins, attempting to bring with them not simply their colors and their fathoms but to show their life upon the stale and stagnant modum of his pen on a page.

And he worries, yes he worries, for he sees the thought others may put in. He reads their work with admiration, and his own, risen with neither forthought or consideration, he considers with a unexpecting father's mix of love and condemnation. He worries ever that words are words, and his works are neither viewed nor cared for. He worries ever that he lacks the skill to shape and fashion the round of a Idea from the pot and pit of Making and Breaking to a square and flat parchment or a story on a screen. And he worries as he hurries to embody the embodiments that his creations may deserve a better 'parent' than the one who rounds the pit, for he knows that no good may ever bode for them that come and go out of it.