#bornwriter

     ❝ yeah-. yeah i’m fine. ❞ a funny thing to say while she’s still visibly shaking. absently she can still feel the shadow of what was once a harsh grip on her arms, that might bruise. but it could have been worse. ophelia’s lips are still pulled into a frown, dark eyes scanning the other. ❝ thanks for. . . that. are you okay ?? ❞

     ❝ i didn’t want you to worry . . . ❞ yet here he was, worrying. and she’s starting to feel a little guilty. the brunette takes to letter from him, crumpling it into her palm. ❝ it’s probably nothing. weirdos write to me all the time. ❞

prompt linked in source! <3

[text from: juniper]: so ijm just a bit drnk rn

[text from: juniper] but ilove youu

Do you love writing?

Do you always predict plots in movies or daily soaps?

Do you always think when you travel?

Did you used to tell fictional childish stories as a kid?

Did you write your 1st poem when you were 10 year old?

Did you used to finish your course’s story book before starting the schools

If you experienced at least three of above then you are born writer. Do you know at what age JK Rowling published his 1st novel? And it was her daughter’s suggestion to write the tales she used to tell her in night.

Many of writers started writing after retiring from their job, and received a high success. You can search any big names in writing, read their life span. It will give you strength. 

Dear Non-Writer:

I am motivated by recent, recurring events to write you this letter in the hopes of shedding some light on The Life of a Writer, and gaining some understanding.  The following describes the latest of many interactions with Non-Writers:

Somewhere deep in the misty cockles of my consciousness, an urgent, repetitive tone radiated through the swirling galaxy of my thoughts.  In reality, it was three o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the phone was ringing – again – for the third time in less than an hour.  I groaned as the tail end of a train of thought retreated its way back, back, into the recesses of my mind, never again to see the light of day.  The phone continued to ring. 

Sighing, I pushed my chair away from the dining room table, where I sat with my laptop, attempting to write. I decided to end this, once and for all, by disconnecting the house phone, equal parts frustrated by the unnecessary interruption and baffled by the notion of someone using a land line to reach someone else in this day and age.  As the phone began to ring once more, I allowed my wretched curiosity to take over: I answered.

The voice on the other end was frantic and harried.  “What are you doing?” the called rushed, sounding winded.  Before I could even say hello or receive any sort of introduction, she barreled onward. 

“Because I need a ride,” she continued rapid-fire, speaking in a staccato rhythm not unlike iambic pentameter.  The caller was my cousin, and she having another “emergency,” which was cousin-speak for “dramatic yet easily avoidable personal situation, which may only be rectified with the involvement of others.”  In short, a Colossal Waste of Time was just about to commence.

“I’m writing,” I answered firmly.

“Oh,” she responded with a brief moment of sanity before pressing the issue, detailing all of the reasons why I “needed” to stop everything I was doing in order to chauffer her wherever she needed to go Right NOW. Her argument was anemic, but her performance was compelling.

“So, you see? You understand now?” she wheezed in conclusion.  “I’m glad I caught you when you weren’t busy working or something.”

I pulled the phone away from my head, held it out in front of me, and stared incredulously into the holes of the handset’s mouthpiece.  Had I really heard correctly?  Did she just ask me for a ride to nowhere, to meet the Wizard of Oz for all I knew, because I “wasn’t busy working or something?” Not busy working?  No, I must be mistaken.  I wanted to tell her that maybe if she was “working or something,” she wouldn’t have time for this week’s episode of Days of Our Lives.  Instead, she was Young and Restless, and I held my tongue.

“I am busy,” I quietly reminded her.  “I’m writing.”

“Oh, well…um…I mean, if that’s busy for you, then, I understand,” she stuttered.

I was incensed at her insinuation that because I was writing, I couldn’t possibly be busy, and infuriated by the thought that the words “writing” and “busy” were not synonyms.  Further, to speculate whether or not writing was considered “working” by others was unconscionable blasphemy. I bid her farewell, wished her good luck on her mission, and returned angrily to my laptop.

How dare she? I wondered in disbelief.  Doesn’t she know? I sighed again and returned my fingertips to the keyboard.  Unfortunately, I began to realize, her view is one commonly held and accepted by others.  Hence the composition this letter.

A popular Volkswagen commercial tells viewers that, “On the road of life, there are passengers, and there are drivers.”   The familiar ad concludes by affirming, carpe diem-style, that drivers are wanted.  The world we live in is similarly divided: there are Writers, and there are Non-Writers. For Writers, it often feels as though we are outnumbered by Non-Writers who just don’t get it.

Writers and Non-Writers do share a great deal of common ground – both have work, families, and responsibilities; both are juggling too many commitments and dropping too many balls; both wonder if (not when) they will ever catch a break.  As a Writer, I am doubly doomed.  My day consists of work, which I define as any activity other than writing which pays my bills and occupies my writing hands for the majority of the day.  The other half of my day is spent on my life’s work, which I define as my calling, my true and sole purpose/gift/downfall in this earthly life, rendering any and all forms of work tedious and unfulfilling.  Yet, work is an evil necessary to support my life’s work.  The goal of any writer, of course, is to mesh the two, so that there is no distinction between one’s work and one’s life work, and to eliminate the need for work by drawing income from one’s (life) work.

This is easier said than done.  In order to be successful as a writer, one must have many things: faith, hope, a prayer (or ten million), patience, time, and time management skills.  Many say that it’s not what you know, but who you know, that it helps to have industry connections.  (I’ll let you know how that goes, if I ever make any). Above all, one must be able to produce a properly edited manuscript containing within its pages A Good Story, unless, of course, one is a reality TV star. In which case, you can write anything at all because someone will publish it,  people will buy it, read it, trash-talk it on Facebook, and otherwise tear it apart, utilizing hashtags such as “#newcoaster” at the end of their posts.  But it won’t matter, because you are celebrity, everyone already paid you even more money to waste their time reading and trashing the trash you probably didn’t even write.  And you can add to your list of stellar accomplishments the fact that you have published a “novel.”

 The Writer’s struggle doesn’t end there – finally completing  A Good Story is only the first chapter of publishing.  In order to get published, one must then compose a succinct yet compelling query letter, in which one solicits (begs) a literary agent  to shop his or her (life’s) work to a publisher (God) in the hopes that one publisher (God) will give the Writer’s work the chance of a lifetime (miracle granted). J.K. Rowling, it is said, underwent this painful please-publish-me process no less than forty-six times before achieving worldwide fame and fortune.

In between all of this, the working and the life-working, the writing and the re-writing, there is Life, and Life is busy.  There are cars to drive, beers to pour, meals to cook, laundry to wash, diapers to change, hair to brush.  And in Life there lies Inspiration, at precisely the moment when the Writer must function as a Non-Writer, put down the pen, and work.  The rare opportunity of free time, then, is one which must be cherished and maximized in order to take advantage of Life’s Inspiration.

So no, Beloved Cousin, I cannot give you a ride, even though it is an “emergency.”  No, Best Friend, I cannot pick you up from JFK at – gasp! – three a.m. aka Peak Writing Hour.  No, I cannot take your mother to the doctor or your dog to the groomer.  I am Writing.  I am (life) Working. Before I was life-working, I have actually been writing (mentally) all day, every day, although my hands were occupied not with a pen but by Work, the bill-paying task du jour.  Please understand that this, too, is work, even if it is not currently paid work.  Therefore, please respect my time both at work and at (life) work. Just as I cannot bombard you with ridiculous requests while you are working, please be mindful and refrain from such interruptions.  I am not selfish; I am not choosing my “hobby” over you.  I am simply working. And God (publisher)-willing, may I always be.

Sincerely,