What becomes of a writer?

 Where does a writer go when the words stop? Do they become just another lost soul forgotten, or will his words live on in the minds of those who faithfully followed his craft? What will become of the readers who found themselves within his stories feeling as if he was speaking only to them?

Where does a writer go when he realizes that soon, the ink won't flow, and the words that once came to him so easily will become a battle to conquer?

What becomes of a writer who can't write? How will he fill his days without words? Will he live for his dreams where words once again flow, and new stories will be told only to wake up and can't be remembered?

In this writer's mind, I would find a peaceful place where the water flows downstream through a quiet village, with a cottage tucked away in a meadow with lush grass and wildflowers as far as the eye can see.

I would welcome the quiet, sit on the porch with a blank piece of paper, and stare at it, wishing for just one more sentence.

Mike 2025