Olivia

I’ve noticed lately that people don’t really understand what it feels like to be a writer. To them, we’re storytellers, yes, but ones who can just switch it off when the real world calls. They see writing as a hobby, something cute, something optional.

But Writing isn’t something we do. It’s where we live. Our heads are crowded with voices that won’t shut up, with worlds that refuse to stay imaginary. We carry entire cities inside us, whole histories that never happened but still weigh more than half the things in our calendars.

From the outside, the “writer” looks romantic. A little tortured, maybe, but mostly harmless. But to us? Being a writer feels like standing at the edge of a cliff with a thousand ghosts pressing at our backs, whispering: Tell us. Tell us. Tell us.

And we do. Not because it’s charming. But because not writing would mean carrying those ghosts forever.

“It’s oaky,” he whispered.