What Keeps me Writing pt. 2

I am what I write. I write what I am.

Writing is not simply putting pen to paper, it is more. When I write, I do not simply etch my pen to whatever pops into my head. No, I sit there ready while faceless shadows creep up and tell me their story. They slowly become people, wondrous, terrible, people. The Brutes, Judas, Ephiliates, Benedict Arnolds. The Hercules, Ceasars, Aragorns, knights in shining armor. The Achilles, the Romeos, Odesyus. They whisper in one ear, dictating their tales. In the other, Shakespeare, Tolkien, Carrol, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, guide my mind, my hand, my pen.

These people, the shadows, and the grand Authors, they strike when least expected, but when they do, it is wonderful. When they leave, they leave a void that aches to be filled. It must be filled. And so I must write. They return when I do, They return to their grandeur, to their prime.

They live in the pen, the ink, the page. They live forever, if but I only give them a chance. And so I write.

And I will write. Until I can no longer feel the pen. Until I no longer hear the click of the keyboard. Until I can no longer smell the crispness of a new book. Until I can no longer see the pages, the letters. I will write. I will write so that I can live forever, to join the ranks of great authors, writers, poets. I will write