A Writer's Beauty

The beauty of a writer is found amid the chaos of half-formed worlds, imaginary friends, and thoughtful ideas.  It is found from the last, flickering embers of candlelight, to the way ink flows; translating thoughts to page, to the LCD screen and its dreadfully annoying blinking cursor, to the lines of frustration and intensity that settle themselves on the writer's brow.

The beauty is seen in the writer's eyes.  The light that suddenly appears as inspiration takes hold, the glaze that alerts others to the fact that the author's spirit has left to enjoy the gifts of a far-off reality.  It is discovered in the tears that spill over their eyes when words have attached themselves so viciously to the heart, that they can no longer distinguish their own emotions from those of characters of fiction.

Beauty is felt through the author's hands.  The abused hands that have suffered paper cuts, cramps, and carpal tunnel.  The passionate fingers that tap out feelings onto tiny keys.  The hands that crumple and tear leafs of paper when the letters refuse to flow.  The hands that will simultaneously reach for paper and pen because when all else fails, words never will.

Beauty is grown from a seedling to a blossoming forest inside the writer's mind.  The mind from which a single, errant thought becomes the next bestseller.  The brain which creates worlds and characters so real and so alive that you believe the next train or closet could place you in their grasp.  The beliefs that start revolutions and the ideas that forever change history.

Most of all, beauty is found in an authors words.  The emotions which use the pen as their translator, the whispers that grace paper.  When an author writes, they overcome the limitations of judgment and slander from reality.  For they know, they know, that the words on the page in front of them will amaze, astound, and influence someone.  They do not yet know how to control the power of words, but when they take up the instrument of their hearts, they become a part of something much larger than themselves.  And they do not quake in fear of rejection or shy away from critique because they know, in their ink-stained soul, that the only opinion that truly matters is the one who controls the beauty.

The End

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