The writer

   Love can only be measured by the times it's been broken. Much like life that can only be experienced if you live it. Both of these sentiments describe the one who calls himself a writer. That somebody, nobody who finds different paths to walk, the one who takes those steps with only his memories to lead the way.

   The writers among us are not so easily identified unless you know how to look. They are the ones walking with the crowds on a busy walkway or looking out of windows on buses and trains. Theirs is a constant search for a story, a yarn, or a poem. They become one with the things they see with open hearts and minds, leaving the rest to pass them by for the writer behind him.

   Being a writer can justify the strangeness that is a compliment to tellers of tales. Is it at all strange to create meaningful stories in your head then slam those words onto a blank page coming up with the magic of the written word? I don't think it strange at all. I see it as a gift to one's self that can either be thrown into the trash bin or shared with hungry eyes of strangers.

   It is magical in so many ways like being able to write a complete story by the time a single cigarette burns out. It can capture the imagination of a child, or the need for a hopeless romantic. It is the fuel of anger or the tears of sadness. Mere words are coming from somewhere that leaves the reader at a loss for words, and the writer with some leftover.

   There is not a more noble profession as that of a writer. He can entice you with his wit and captivate you with simple words that hit like a runaway train. He can take you on a journey that allows you to become one with the characters. Its quite easy to write if you follow one simple rule, just learn to listen to the world around you because every breath taken is a story waiting to be born.

Mike

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www.michaeloconnorwriter.com