And Voila! She writes…!
It starts off as a strenuous battle with a heavy pencil and protesting, dry paper. Then it turns into a mildly pleasant experience with the tools of the craft turning demure, as though tamed by the war. Later, it all becomes part of a magic trick; worlds within worlds and skies without skies. And lo! A writer is born! (Cue dramatic music)
Being a writer is hard work. Not only does the craft have to be polished and practiced well, it has to be nurtured, despite the world’s apparent lack of interest toward it. Nobody has the time to read through those 300 pages about morality, but evidently, everyone has time to glance through that glossy picture of puppies playing.
At some point, writing turns into an activity that makes no sense. It becomes something to employ the mind with, like a mindless game on a sultry afternoon. It gets packed away in that miscellaneous box called ‘Hobbies’ and life moves into a mature realm called ‘A Real Job.’
The writer dies, to make room for the person with the real job. A flower withers, a bud is shredded before bloom, the mirror screams of golden times that could have been; cracks in the reflection that burn like flames of sorrow.
But what’s this…? The writer stands up from the flames, picking the dilapidated body of its craft… She writes! She writes!
Your life will be full of regret if you don’t follow your heart. Writing is life, it is the blood in your veins, the light of day. Join LexiConn, we await your glorious presence. Are we being too dramatic? Well, language gives us the liberty; you should understand more than anyone!
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