And so hard.
The emotions, burning deep within you, screaming to be let out.
You stand admist an open sea, its waves lapping at your feet, waiting for the inspiration to wash over you.
And it comes. Slowly. Surely.
Having a story....
It's like containing a secret that you MUST share. Pressing upon you, tantalizing you, driving you on madly, until you can no longer think.
Words come to mind.
Spread across you page like a silent ocean.
People, places...they spring before you eyes, dancing, whirling, showing you the way they want to be.
Hearts break, souls mend, and in the end, you discover that though it all pulls through to the end, you will never be the same.
The gift of a writer is going through everything your character does.
Pain, joy, sorrow, contentment, upheaval, bitterness, longing, love, animation, disgust...
It all goes through you, one by one. You feel it. Keenly.
And so we write. We write and write and write.
There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
A writer would never trade their life for another's. They would never give up writing. The dreams. The agony. The silent screaming. The joy of creating.
The life of a writer. Irreplaceable. Indescribable.