The Writer
There is something odd about this world that wants to put everything in a box, label it and launch a productive line. Stuck between being a productive member of society and just a person exploring her various interests and ways to experience life I ponder on the image of a Writer, one that knows nothing about his title, but lives passionately just to share his view of the world.
All great writers were just people trying to convey their emotions, views, worlds they had in their head. The visions, the stories, they had to be told. An unexpressed person, person who doesn’t know himself, will never be a great writer or a great artist. He has to find himself. It’s an imperative. In the craziness of the world around him, he screams to be heard, he writes because the pain of having the words locked up inside him is worse. The stories have to be told. The songs have to be written. Whatever life throws at him, he feels through it and then writes. His expression is dyed in the colours of his mood, is covered in the taste of his pain, is loaded with bursts of his joy. Expression is something he cannot fight. Inspiration is something that haunts him until he sits and writes it all down. With music in his ears, pictures in his mind. He writes. It is both his curse and his blessing. When he is desperate, he escapes to writing. When he is joyous, he needs to share it. When he is sad, he cries it out most poetically. He is a faucet of truth, an instrument of force. His pen is like a sword of a knight, forever bound to his arms. His keyboard screeches under his bent fingertips….He observes, absorbs and expresses. Everything he writes is an ache. He writes because he is touched. He writes because there is something inside that feels the story. It needs to be told. It needs to be told.
He writes and in the madness of his creation, he sometimes destroys it all….And then writes again.
A person whose addiction is conveying his perspective through words. His goals, his dreams, his pursuits. His truth. His vision. He creates worlds and characters, symbols and stories, he gives them life. He connects patterns. He is prophetically artistic.
In his daily life, he is both ordinary and mad. He has multiple roles but when he writes he is mostly himself.
The Writer.
This is how I view the Writer. He is an archetype that helps me remember why I write, why I have been writing for years secretly in notebooks, journals, in Word documents and now in writer apps. It is both therapy and need from which emerges the habit. It’s like a glass of whiskey without the drunken disorderly. But sometimes it feels like a drug. Mostly something I have to do before the curtain closes.
