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