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Compulsion


I tried for years to resist, only to end up miserable in every single job I chose to do. I only found true happiness when I finally listened to the call and began to write.


We are each called to a specific purpose, some to medicine, some to business, others to construct roads, bridges, buildings that reach to the sky, farmers, bakers, sailors and jailers, conductors, singers and tellers of zingers, but some, oh, some are called to write, to craft beautiful stories of humor, tragedy, horror, inspiration, memories and facts, fantasy and dreams.

Writers pour their heart and souls into their chironicles never knowing if readers will love it. They’ve been known to go for years with rejection after rejection never giving up hope until finally someone finally believes in them. Even then, there’s no guarantee of success. Yet, they keep on writing, keep on imagining and creating worlds we cannot and will not ever see without their help. They string words together into rich visual sentences that transport us from our mundane lives to magical places just beyond our borders. At night they will lie awake to dream, only to fall asleep at their desks trying to craft the story as perfectly as they see it in their mind. They cry genuine tears when their favorite character dies at their hands, laugh at the antics of a clown hidden deep within the text of their manuscript and create terrifying obstacles for their hero to overcome.


These are the scribes of our world, our time. Their works rest in great hallowed buildings known as libraries, bookstores or theaters along with those who have gone before them. Musty, dusty tomes stacked haphazardly on rickety shelves that soar to ceilings of dank, dark passageways, the names on the spines long since faded. The authors of these ancient books lie asleep, their bodies buried in old church floors or in overgrown cemeteries on the tops of forgotten hills, their gravestones now weathered and worn, their fables forever etched into our memories.


Someone once told me that writing is the hardest thing anyone could ever do. I didn’t believe them at first. I do now. For writers lay open their very souls, transcribing the contents onto paper for all to see. One might ask why someone would ever want to expose themselves in such a way. I answer, it is an irresistible compulsion writers cannot ignore, for to do so would cause them to shrivel up and die inside. R.A. Salvatore said, “If you can quit, then quit. If you can’t, then you are a writer.”


I.Can’t.Quit.

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@ by Mary Lynn