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On Being a Writer

I am a writer. Perhaps not a famous writer, nor one who is lavished with praise or money…just a writer. I am an avid reader of books, magazines, newspapers, websites or anything that I see in print. I am what I have read.

I compose my thoughts on anything I can get my hands on — paper, keyboard, PDA…anything that allows me to express myself in a correctable form.​

Like many writers, I sometimes find myself at a loss for words. I try not to repeat my mistakes when I write and learn how to become a better writer from other more experienced writers. Not all of us are not born with the talent to speak plainly, we tend to embellish what we create with colorful phrases (metaphors if you will). Many of us enjoy using our ability to bend language into baubles of thought, jewelry that sparkles with diamonds of knowledge, emotion-filled rubies of angst and conflict that glow every color of the rainbow, sparkling sapphires that glisten with color and expression.​

Writers are the quiet ones who sit in the corner of the bar or restaurant, dutifully recording what our eyes see our noses smell and our ears hear. Our minds are in touch with our senses, striving to become as vivid as Ovid, that we might create lyric poetry that whirls around us, our words a panoply of spells that we strive to weave into magic that will last forever.​

Our days are the worst when we do not write, and the best when we do. 

Nothing can match the single feeling of accomplishment when we complete our goal — the book. And like a child we have raised with blood, sweat, and the guile of despair, we struggle to let it go, always critical of what we have created in our struggle to reach perfection. 

For writing is our soul, and our soul is print.

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