The Writer

The Writer

The writer often hoped that her writing would not come off too autobiographical. She wanted to write, for the love of writing. And yet there’s no real way to keep the writing you create truly impersonal, she thought. Laughing internally at the use of ‘and’ after a full stop, she enjoyed testing syntactic boundaries.

She had always been a writer at heart. Though she exercised this ability in various forms, she was the writer above all other things. And there had been a lot of other things.

The writer had spent a long time masquerading. Playing the part of other, creating a multitude of alter-egos in order to carry out the work she loved. Alter-egos become tiring after a while; they create worlds of their own that are impossible to navigate all at the same time.

The writer did not want to portray falsehoods in her writing. Happy to portray falsehoods in her virtual world, as a safety net from those who may find her in reality.

The difficulty with creative people, she thought, is their multiple personality potential. A writer is also an artist, is also a comedian, a creator, a designer, a fast learner. She is an editor, photographer, digitally literate, professional at adaptation.

Jack of all trades, master of none?

The writer was tired of being multiskilled, as arrogant as that may sound. She wanted to regain her focus and try to reconnect with her first love – writing. She would try, although time had not been kind to her mind, to the language she used to know and flex like the muscles of Van Damme. To her memory, ravaged by a lack of sleep and proper care. It had eaten away at her confidence, at her linguistic ability.

She believed this to be true.

Perhaps, thought the writer, this voyage of reconnection may rebuild neural pathways. Maybe it will repair lost skills. To write every day if possible, even if the writing is dire at first, must have a benefit to her brain. The writer worried frantically about her brain, so greatly that it kept her awake in blind defiance of the one thing that could perhaps repair it.

Will this writing identify her? She had considered this point at length. There comes a moment to stop hiding, and perhaps this was hers. The writer would write to improve. To engage and entertain. To inspire and return to her once capable mind the words, concepts and ideas that had slipped unintentionally through the sands of time.

The writer would write. Truth and lies, falsehoods and fantasies. She would contemplate the reality of writing, and present it to the world in its raw form. She vowed not to flatlay the truth of her work.

Who knows what would become of it?

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