Reality of a Prison Writer 14—E.C. Theus-Roberts
I write therefore I am. I love this saying. Not only because it translates well from Spanish to English then Latin. Rather because it’s true. I’d probably lose my last, forlorn marble if I couldn’t write. And, although prison is an ill-conducive setting for writing, I’m no less driven by each creation I pen.
Incarceration carries so much inimical to the creative process. Prison lacks solitude even if you’re in solitary confinement. Peace of mind is a myth. In particular, those in pursuit travel a path fraught with failures. Mentally, physically, and emotionally, prison reality is draining. And the oh-so unsubtle currency of violence even guards and administrators trade in.
Being a prison writer entails many pitfalls and sleepless nights. Shepherding ephemeral thoughts into coherent concepts, concepts to compelling storylines and those into an immersive, transportational read is no easy task.
Despite all that, writing, even in prison, is a labor of love. It’s like raising many tiny tyrants, just hopefully less expensive. Children light up our worlds; that is until they can crawl, wobble, run, talk, talk back, paint the family dog, crush the family car, induce your early mid-life crisis, and somehow become functioning adults without removing all your sanity. Love, such a pleasant torment.
Writers are an unconventional bunch, full of idiosyncrasies. Prison writers must need to be that much more innovative and visionary. Prison is confinement. For every prisoner, at some point in time, the walls close in. Four walls and a street door become a coffin with a tight lid where it’s only you, your demons and the dark surrounds. Prison writers experience the same but more often pursue the moment when walls melt and bright vistas emerge. That is when our labor of love is rewarded.
Prison Writers Support Organization 