A writer's heart is a story.
We lock them up, then throw them out in puzzles you will never complete. Our hearts are like blank canvases, people like you leave the brightest colors.
We don't belong in this time, or this country, or this world. The universe will never leave us satisfied—we belong somewhere else.
Our official uniform is a bathrobe and a coffee mug, and heavy eyelids.
Writing isn't healthy like people say—unless you count staying up 'til 2 Am—hands gliding wildly across the keyboard, running on caffeine, adrenaline, and will power, healthy.
We don't speak half as well as we write—our silver tongues in ink turn to jelly in our mouths. But we will show you things you've never seen, stories in places like store fronts and playgrounds, or the mundane street where you walk your dog.
We're lonely—but introverted. If we don't speak to you for two weeks, trust that we'll come back, hearts absolutely aching for you. . . .it happens more often than not.
Stories lie beneath our skin, in our bones and blood. Monsters trying to emerge, tearing through thick lairs of tough outer skin.
We're emotional, but guarded. Don't be surprised if you've never seen us frown, then suddenly you find us one day, curled up somewhere in a sobbing mess, our chests squeezing tightly for people who aren't there.
Our characters are real—so don't tell us otherwise. We'll turn beet red, and clench our jaws in silence, but inside we're burning. They're my best friends.
A writer and a reader are two the same and different—the reader yearns for adventure, so does the writer. The difference is knowing what that adventure is.
Our stories have no end, so don't expect our words to. I apologize personally for grabbing a piece of paper and scribbling wildly in your presence.
So let us take your stories, and we'll take ours. We'll craft you beautiful things from pain and morose, press paper into poetry.
But don't expect too much from us—we'll always be the same but never be.
Such is the writer.