Writing is about emotion. It’s about creating something substantial from the whirling eddy of hopes, fears and dreams rattling about an author’s skull at any given time. We are creatures of extremes, all of us, and the writer’s role is to connect, to bridge the gap, to let others know that they are not alone on this experience we call life. To loose off a flare into the dark and light a path for the lost and desperate.
So we write. We dip the nib into the red raw hearts on our sleeves and we write. We write about joy and despair, agony and ecstasy, we write from the edge hoping to draw others into our ever-beating cores. We are not about filling blank pages with bland, nonsensical language. Our prose must have purpose for, otherwise, what’s the point. We might as well stagnate and wither on the literary vine.
Progress follows purpose. We heal old wounds, open new doors and break down once insurmountable barriers. We mend fences and build bridges. We look backwards and all around us for inspiration but always face forwards. For that is where the harvest is richest, that is where we find the trees bearing the sweetest fruit. New memories must be found and moulded. They are our essence, the fuel that drives us forward.
So read it and weep. Tears of sorrow or joy, both are manna from heaven to the writer. Our words are our weapons and we strike deep and true, aiming for the heart of our readers. Hate us, love us, but please don’t be ignore us. We do nothing by halves and ache for feedback and critique. The ink flows more freely down a two way street. Indifference and apathy are death to our twitching ears. Read us and weep, read us and reach out.