Do not cry for us

writers-block

It is another late night. I have taken myself off to bed once, but to no avail; sleep evades me, scurrying away into the darkness the moment my eyelids become heavy.

So I return to the keyboard and start tapping away, to see what devils play within my mind tonight. Only it is no longer night, it is two thirty in the morning.

Sometimes this is when all the indiscriminate arbitrary concepts and vague notions I have considered during the days previous, formulate themselves into a cohesive interrelated and reasonably logical order, thus forming a coherent chain of words, which when read back, actually convey my original inspiration and intention to the reader.

This period, at least for myself, generally occurs at arbitrary times. It is haphazard, irregular and unselective. Although these late nights, these solitary, unsocial and introverted hours are those that commonly prove the most creatively productive.

In the morning, (read later today), after and eventually I have achieved some sleep, I shall present myself to the world in a fashion that shall cause the observer to regard me as introverted and unsociable.

Although this would not be my elected preference, I cannot chastise those who would consider me as such, because I know I shall be ruminating and deliberating over the words that I have written tonight, and as such my demeanour shall convey such meditation as distant and antisocial.

This is a burden that is carried upon the shoulders of many, if not all, creative writers.

The creativity ingenuity required to conjure fictional lives from the rawness of neural pathways, to weave nether worlds from mere suggestion, or pen flowing poetry that stirs passions and excites emotion, thrives best when it is born from the isolated world of the solitary writer.

Distraction is a temporary remedy, a partial relief of this symptomatic characteristic trait. However there is no cure. This is the writers curse.

   Do not cry for us.

This is our choice, our drug of life which brings its own highs, begets its rewards in other forms of alternate kinds.

Satisfaction and stimulation of your mind, your heart, and your soul is our reward. To tease and toy with your emotions until you lose for those moments your sense of the world around you and escape into ours, into our fictitious realm, our domain of narrative legend.

That is our reward, our incentive and our recompense.

   Thank you for reading, Paul White.

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