“I hear voices in my head. They tell stories, great detailed stories. I hear the voices as if they were here next to me, next to thee. I can see what they art telling me as if what they art telling me are my own personal memories. I feel as if I have lived through these characters in a previous life. As if the main characters in my stories were me, and I was writing them down is a way to connect to my lost self. I go mad if I do not put these voices down on paper. I can write different stories at a time because the voices in my head sometimes go from one story to the other. My stories interlude with one another, but I can still finish rather quickly because the voices in my head don’t let me rest until they are put down in ink.”

“In a time where the beauty of poetry, and plays are considered evil, I keep these voices silent. I wrote secretly and told no one. Sometimes when I walk the streets, I feel like people can hear the voices that were traveling throughout my mind. I feel paranoid all the time for I believe they will think I am a mad man or some I am some sort of demon for the voices, and try to exorcise me. Once, when I went without writing, the voices turned into my vision. The people that were wandering the street became the characters. Their faces changed right in front of me. I felt like they were all looking at me, so I started sprinting to my home. I tripped over them trying to get away. My arms burned as I touched them. I felt as if they were trying to leer me into their world. I think it was a metaphor saying that if I don’t write and voice out that I too will just become the faded nothing that these characters are. I doth not want to be labeled as a mad man, so I stayed in hiding from the world for a while. “
“I started to write again because I thought t’would be wrong to waste time that God gave me. I thought t’would be wrong to not stand up for what I believe in and be a coward, because cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

When I was a boy I worshiped thee who conducted plays. I lived my life through them and their stories, but O, how bitter a thing t’is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes. So when I wrote I never had expectations because I felt that expectation is the root of all heartache, so I wrote silently for myself. Experience taught me that you give every man thy ear, but few thy thoughts. I held that very dear to me, until, someone told me “Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.” Well, my writing mentor said I too could have that greatness if I just feared not of rejection from the people. My mentor was a great man; he was high up in the government. I always promised him I would never tell his name because his kind dost not associate with peasants such as myself at the time. I remember once I went over to his mansion for the first and only time I had to disguise myself so no one would know he ever associated with me. People later spotted us together years later when my writings became big. Rumor said that he was the one writing my poems and I was taking his glory, ‘For how can a peasant be so talented with only grammar school education.’ He told me to fear not- to rid myself of the thought “Is it good enough?”
“For a while, I considered the voices my foe, for I was never a rebel of the government, I hardly had an opinion either way. But in my writings, thou shall definitely be able to tell my opinions; that was my fear. I was scared to show people my real voice. And in time we hate that which we fear, and that’s wherefore I hated the voices. I feared if I showed opinion I would be arrested like the most others who voiced out. I remember as if it were yesterday when my good friend of mine presented a play, and he had slurs toward the higher ups in the government. They took him away during the play and within minutes, he was hung. To answer thee’s other question I finally released my poetry and started performing my plays because I felt like a coward wasting precious life.”

“Well, the motivation behind some of the writing was revenge against the government, for they took away and killed many who were dear to me. When I was a boy I worked as a messenger and on my way to send a message I saw them take away my uncle because he was drunk and said something horrid about the King. I never saw him again. The executed him in public as an example of what happens when you speak out of place. I was right there next to him when they did it. Those sick scum chopped his heads right in front of me. The blood flew through the air, some got on my face. It was warm; it felt like an ant on my skin as it dripped down. As a boy I vowed to seek revenge. I always believed if you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? So my writings were my revenge, even the love writings, the tragedies, the sonnets, poems, all done out of revenge, for there was nothing they hated more than my success.

I thank thee for coming to talk with I. Little early I see but better three hours too soon than a minute too late. I shall tell you this for the advice you seek. T’is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. Also, love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. Thank you and good day, Sirrah.