Writers...

images by Thaikrit via FreeDigitalPhotos
and J. Paxon-Reyes via Flickr

...artists or sorcerers?
We all know that expression, "a picture paints a thousand words". Well then, surely a thousand words, more or less, can paint a moving picture in our imagination.
  
I like to write. A lot. But, I wouldn’t call myself a writer. No way. I just like to relay my thoughts. To anyone who’ll stick around long enough to read.

I am always in awe of the writers I admire. I’m amazed at how they can touch my heart and soul. Of the resonance that rings within me when I read.

How? How do they know the way I feel? What sorcery is at play that allows them to creep stealthily into my being, observe my thoughts and emotions and take them so that I may find them written on the page?

Of course. They don’t write about me. How can they? They don’t know me. Or, do they?

To me, a good writer knows people. Is able to tap into the fibres of humanity. Tug out threads to create their stories about people, places, situations and scenarios.

From far above, I imagine looking down and seeing this huge living blanket woven from the loom of the Universe, fabricated from the fibres (moral and immoral) within us all.

If you look at microscopic textile fibres, they look uncannily like DNA. Twisted organic ribbons of life.

There’s no coincidence.

We are all so connected. Animals, birds, plants, insects. Inhabitants of this planet.

All of us.

Good writers, no, great writers, meld with us. We read their work and we connect. They have the gift of relating to what is inside us.

And when a particular writer’s work resonates with multitudes, then perhaps they are going deep, deep, deeper down to collect and reflect what is within.

Isn’t it wonderful what these masters - these artists, these conjurers - can do?