The Fortitude of a Writer

The Fortitude of a Writer

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I feel that I am duty bound to give reassurance to my readers of just a few things this exquisite summer’s evening. You see, I often invoke worry, curiosity or wagers, on how a writer spends his or her time throughout their days.

Most of my acquaintances evidently suspect, I sit upon an armchair to dream up my plots or prose, whilst holding the obligatory cup of tea. Or perhaps, I lounge upon a wooden bench, placed beneath a Willow tree, quoting Emerson, Wordsworth or Bronte. They would indeed have you believe I spend my days reading books and occasionally stroking felines, whilst dropping biscuit crumbs upon my knees.

You see, I must reassure you all that I work my fingers to the bone, penning thousands of beautiful words upon parchment. I whip them up into typing a wealth of literary information, regardless of their neglected pressure sores.

I exercise my mind until its mentally exhausted, seeking storylines, polished prose and wild narration. I endure the numbing pain of my aching extremities, as I sit in my solid chair for many hours. If you look upon my face, a pile of baggage you would see, to prove the sleepless nights a writer must inherit.

Writing helps ease the agony of holding plenitudes of stories, of which linger in our minds throughout a lifetime. To write is to seek shelter from reality itself and to comprehend our own tangled existence.

Whether published or not, I strive for quality and perfection, cultivating beauty from words typed on a screen.

I have broken my back and occasionally my heart, in the pursuit of my cherished occupation. So, go ahead, praise me, for I work the solid hours of any working man, woman or volunteer. My fortitude often pains me, but I live to write the stories full of magic bestowed within literacy.

I am a writer
I endure agony to expose my untold stories.
And what I do, I do it all for thee

~ © Amelia Dashwood 2015

(Image:rammendi-d-anima.tumblr.com/post/129859742638)

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