The Writer

Can the rosebush ever cease to love the sun and the earth? Just as man loves the moon and the stars, the flower petals bask in the warm pillars of light leaking down between the leaves of heaven. Pink petals plummet in a perilous journey to the ground, and still tediously pulling apart my little bitter-sweet fruit, I sit here and let myself think that in this whole world there is nothing to wrap my focus around, and so I just write. Spiteful of the horizon of gold and rose seeping into the morning sky, I still find no inspiration tucked behind such sweet sights. I simply sit beneath this great oak and ponder life’s smallest quandaries. Small talk of big thoughts. How lovely is the weather? How lovely of the sun to send pleasant heat to the nearest side of a meager rock in space. How lovely is it that gravity should send leaves dancing across the sky on a day such as today.

Six hours of pacing, writing, erasing, and exploring further into the depths of my stubborn mind and still the writer’s duty is one to remain unfulfilled. As a writer there is nothing more troubling then deciding on how to kill a character. In writing death is beauty, tragic beauty, but beauty nonetheless. It must be used carefully but can be the greatest tool a writer can possess. It is not the emotional attachment to said character that makes killing them difficult, but more simply the knowledge that if the death is not brought in a manner that is aesthetically pleasing, and pertinent to the life experience of the character, then the writing will never be true. To a writer, there is no greater discomfort than knowing that you are not being true to your own mind.