Life of a Writer

Once a beautiful young woman, forced to live a life of labour. Her talents were wasted. So skilled she was in the art of writing and creating a piece with words so magical, they flowed together in perfect harmony. But she was trapped, destined to spend her days making slides and websites, along with mindless order entry and data checking. A job that once excited her had resulted in boredom.

But how she dreamed.

She would spend her days of boredom immersed in her world of adventure. Knowing, hoping, praying, one day her world would come to life and she could be free of the labours of work. But still such a life seemed so far off. So many hours of writing were to be put into such a life, but it was a life desired.

So she set to work, spending all her free time (and much of her non free time.) living in a dream world, imagining creatures beyond the fold and writing stories that came from her very soul, piecing worlds together, sending beloved characters on adventures, and at times, to their death. Those were the hardest times, writing the death of a loved one. Tears were shed for characters, friends she’d come to understand.

But the story must be told, and not all will end in happiness. Our world was full of tragic times. Such was the way she wrote.

It wasn’t always easy, living in another world. Most didn’t understand the complexities of it all. Most didn’t want to meet her friends. Most did not see them as friends. But still, she wrote on, knowing there would be others. There would be people who would see them the way she did. They would understand what it was to live in that world and love those people. So, she wrote on.

Years passed. Work slowed. Imagination dwindled. Fingers ached. Still, she wrote. It was in those times that writing was the strongest, her emotion pouring into each word typed on a white screen, or scribbled on lined page. And as she wrote, she understood, she loved, she hated, she cried, she laughed. As she wrote, emotion flowed, freely, quickly, feeling everything almost at once.

It was then that she realized, then that she really knew, her characters were her, multiple versions of her, the hate, the love, the friendship, the perfection, the failure. Each emotion, each characteristic emulating an extreme version of herself, of an emotion she perhaps never felt, except through their eyes.

An experience she would never have, a place she would never be, and a friend she would never meet; except through their eyes.

It was then that she understood, writing was for her, not for anyone else. Those that enjoyed it were kindred, but they were not meant to love it all. Each imperfection was her own. Each negativity was hers. It was there she found comfort, there she found life, there she found freedom.

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