One of the most frustrating and annoying aspects about being a person who loves to write is that other people never seem to understand why we enjoy it so much.

“It’s such a waste of time,” they say. Or, even worse: “Why bother writing fiction? Nobody  reads anymore, anyway, not when they could just watch a movie” It is enough to make any sensitive, intelligent person feel tempted to sink into a mire of depression. Perhaps this lack of literary love is one of the reasons Hemingway drank so much.

And so, people like me, who enjoy writing and tend to be on the shy side anyway, often hide their art. We listen respectfully as our friends and neighbors boast about the latest painting they’ve completed, or about their stunning performance in the amateur theatre production at the local town hall. We blink our eyes politely, trying hard to remain expressionless, when some fool trashes the stellar bestseller of the moment, declaring that it’s “easy” to write a novel, and that if they weren’t so busy being a VIP at their corporate desk job, they would have no trouble writing the next Great American Novel. Yeah, right, we think, inwardly rolling our eyes. And my dog poops diamonds.

We are the writers in disguise, the rare few who would rather spend our time actually engaging in the craft rather than talking, or rather, bragging about it. 

We are the ones who labor over our keyboards and notebooks, bringing forth beauty, stirring up emotions, and creating life from blank pages.

Most people will never see through our disguises, and we are fine with that, because we are not the ones who want to be seen. We are the ones who want to, and will be, heard.

 

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