People don’t usually understand when I utter the
unspeakable words. They cringe with a shocked look on their face, almost saying
“You can do that?” And it hurts. Who
wants to be the freak who says, “I want to be a writer”? It’s like a disease.
Watch out, it might be contagious.
It doesn’t flow off the tongue with the same finesse
as “I want to be a doctor” or “I want to be an international peace leader and
end all possible destruction that faces the earth in the years to come.” The image
of a professional writer is often of the “starving artist” barely surviving on
the streets of some large city. They sit cooped up in a room the size of a
bathroom with walls that have chipped paint, tapping away on a typewriter.
But in reality, that’s not what most writers aspire
toward. Not every writer dreams of producing “J.K. Rowling famous” novels. Some
people think that purposefully selecting words to string together in sentences
sounds like a good time. And I am one of them.
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