Writers are storytellers, first.
We are brushless painters, chisleless sculptors.
Architects of new realities and crafters of perception.
We are the hero and the villain and the comic relief.
The inexorable sadists,
the indelible masochists.
We are the light at the end of the tunnel
and we are the train.
I’ve been told that writer’s are little more than professional liars, career procrastinators and champions of solitaire.
I think they were wrong,
I think to write is to fall in love, over and over and over again. With the hearts and minds and motivations of your characters, with the fictional quirks of your own creations.
I think to write is to mourn, for the unrequited love of fleeting honesty, for the death of your own orchestration.
I think to write is to find the dormant pulse of a world not yet born. To breathe your own life force across the still lips of a waking dream, already knowing that you must one day kiss those same lips goodbye.
I think to write is to shape your own insanity, to converse with apparitions and fight wars with monsters unknown. To live lifetimes in mapless worlds by the side’s of souls never born.
Or perhaps it is insanity that shaped us, shining shards of lost minds with no beacon to call us home, sinking deep into a tumoultous sea of possibility.
Brilliance and madness being one and the same.