I am a writer, not a famous writer, not one who is lavished with praise or money…just a writer. I expose my thoughts on anything I can get my hands on — paper, keyboard, PDA…anything that allows me to express myself in a correctable form.
Many writers are not born with the talent to speak plainly, we tend to embellish what we write with colorful phrases (metaphors if you will). We enjoy our ability to bend our language into baubles of thought, jewelry that sparkles with diamonds of knowledge, rubies laden with emotion as well as sapphires that glisten with color and expression.
We are the quiet ones, who sit in the corner of a bar or restaurant and dutifully record what our eyes see, our ears hear, and our bodies touch, our words a panoply of spells that we strive to weave into magic that lasts forever.
Our days are the worst when we do not write, and the best when we do. Nothing can match the feeling of accomplishment when we complete our goal — the poem, the story, the book. And like a child raised with blood, sweat, and despair, we struggle to let it go, ever striving to reach perfection. Our writing is our soul, and our soul is on paper
