You are a writer.
It makes no difference whether you plan to pick up your pen for the first time tomorrow, or whether you have been clutching it tightly for many years already; a woman is no less a mother when her milk first begins to flow.
Writing is the music you make for a dance of your design; the legacy you will one day leave of the life you once lived. Writers write for different reasons. Some of us write because there are stories inside us we long to tell, people we wish to impress or maybe products we’d like to sell.
You may have a single reason or a hundred. I could never narrow mine down.
Maybe you are a writer because you know it is a sterling affair, each of those moments when you find the sound of swirling syllables speaking from a symphony born in your private abyss; a tangle of thought unraveled upon the page revealing the inner you, then placing it on display for the reader as you stand back both bashful and proud.
Perhaps you are a writer because you mourn the brevity of our existence and are selfish enough to wish you might live through the best of your moments more than once.
You may not know why you are a writer, but that’s okay. The important thing is to know you are.
Though no one needs a blessing to consider themselves a writer, many people have kept themselves prisoner of anemic thoughts and limiting preconceptions. If you are searching for permission, here you go – POOF! – you’re now a writer.
You may now inhabit more than a single existence. One life fixed firmly in the reality that swims before you, the other quietly observing all the versions which wait in your mind’s eye, eager to reveal their own romantic record of yesterday.
Get comfortable. Allow the knowledge that you are a writer to settle in your senses. Ponder where it might lead. What worlds will you create and who will your mind manufacture to fill them?
Because you are a writer, imagination is your only horizon.
For the dozen years preceding my life with a pen, I made my living buying and selling flowers. Perhaps it was there where I first learned to manipulate beauty; there where I discovered I could take something which was already beautiful, and shape it into something breathtaking. I found my favorite flowers, combined them with colors that echoed, and discovered that nature herself was only offering suggestion.
What works with flowers, works with words as well. You can write like that; words in a sentence like flowers in a bouquet. Language is color and there are few limits to its use. The more you use it, the more natural it will be.
Primary colors coalesce for the rainbow, yet the remaining hues paint the world which lies beneath. Paint your life with the tip of a pen or stroke of a key, rinse your memory in vivid color, and carve a future from the worlds you create.
You are a writer. Messy the desktop with your thoughts and pull the best from inside you.
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