We are writers.

We are writers.

Our innocent country walks; our grocery trips; our meditations -are narrated. “Lush greenings brush against…” “So stands the stoic milk…” “Thus, she found herself…”

We can subsist on very little, although it must be a consumable accessory to a keyboard or notebook.

It’s perfectly normal and reasonable to find we’ve only left our desk to curl up somewhere, muttering about a “block” or “wall” or “J.K. Rowling.”

Time does not exist. Dishes do not exist. Why are you asking about the dishes?

Words are all that matter.

Therefore, we are also readers. Don’t bother us during or after a book. Blinking blearily, we’re likely to assume you’re less real than the world between the words. And we’ll bite.

To those still wishing understanding or attention: practice a straight face, prepare encouraging remarks, clean the kitchen, bring something chocolate, and stay away until THE END.

Sometimes, we are human again.

Photo by Lisa on Pexels.com

Β©2021 Chel Owens

31 thoughts on “We are writers.

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