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I will always be a writer, it was imprinted into my soul. My art it pours out of me, as if my heart wishes to sing all day and all night. It is such a chatterbox, this heart of mine. It dances in the words as if it were performing a ballet, loving each tiny movement. It comes as a river, often gentle, yet with a flow that appears to have a sense of where it is going. It comes to be born rather than moulded, to show itself for what it is. It is a lot of me and a lot of divine inspiration, or that is how I see it when an artist truly loves, when the art is the proof of the loving heart.

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Dear writer, will you right me? Will you hear the searing of my heart and seal in more of the cure, less of the craving for all that harms? Will you be the arms without bullets, bring the kind of digits that are kind and wrap around the ropes that bring me to a grassy bank, to make this distance nothing, so that I may place these bare feet on solid ground, that I may let this boat rest on the shore, in the surety of trust, in the harbour of your love; for if that is what you harbour, if I'm right, I'm already home. It would be so lovely though, dear writer, if you would write.

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In good moods a writer may paint words that are fine wine and soft music; words that contain more healing medicine than all the drugs created by man. They are clear water over rocks, a shelter in any storm. They are food for the soul of every flower of the light. So I vow to only write what is right, inspired by the golden illumination of a sun that never dies. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword, for a pen can weave love; a pen can bring the cleansing rain of hope; a pen can speak words so sublime as to last all the ages of man.

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Taliana was a beautiful person, not in looks, though she was pretty enough. It was like God had planted a seed of perfect caring in her soul and it was ripping her apart as it grew. Every time she saw the imperfections of the world for humans, animals and the environment it was like a vice to her head. The pain built inside her until anxiety took her prisoner. How was she to change what she saw? What was the good of enlightenment if there was no way to make a difference? Volcanic frustration balled inside her, only exploding around those she felt safest with. She ripped into her mother for every hair-line fault while her mind created reasons for the pressure in her head, attributing blame to friends and family. Her only talent was to write, create fiction; she wanted to take that seed of understanding and cast it far away. What was the point in seeing, feeling the pain of people in disparate parts of the globe? Why couldn't she shut it out like everyone seemed to?

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The least popular and gifted of her friends, Heidi had found more happiness than any of them. While they pursued glory she worked quietly on her own. While they would only consider the finest looking men she sought the one with the kindest heart. She had shunned a high flying career in favour of working days at an animal shelter and writing her stories by night. If it took ten or twenty years of practice she was willing to put in the time, how else could she tell the tales that dwelt in her heart? She had no uptown apartment or fancy car, and she had no more friends than she could count on one hand; but she was happy. She loved her job, her boyfriend and her tiny apartment filled with other peoples cast offs. It was eclectic, vibrant, and all hers. She had the freedom to create entire worlds and populate them with characters, creating conflicts only to solve them in her own surprising ways. For Heidi happiness would never come from a store, unless it was a store selling her books...

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The writer is a weaver of words. He/she takes the threads of words, and weaves them into a pattern that could fill another person’s mind with beauty, or the choice of words may be patterned to create a wide array of responses and emotions. The consciousness of the reader might be awakened - by the weaver’s mere words. As reader, one is free to disregard or applause the words, but the weaver hopes to build an extension bridge from his/her innermost self. Inside the reader’s mind, the words are laced together until the imagined or real intent of the writer is achieved, or at least the word garment can be appraised. So, from the weaver’s words, the formed garment of sentences and phrases may bring joy, or rejection. Either way, the writer has provided a zip-line between two minds. The reader is either transported happily into the world of the word weaver, or the reader examines the word garment, and places it abruptly back on the rack. No matter what takes place in the mind of the beholder of the “word garment,” the weaver of words has visited the mind into the other. Awesome!

By wmack99, February 20, 2015.

Bill McDonald.

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The difference between utopia and dystopia isn't the technology. We can have a high-tech heaven-on-earth or a high-tech hell. The difference is our culture, how we treat one another and how we care for the rest of life on earth. Don't get me wrong, I believe that scientists do God's work as much as anyone, but without the writers, the philosophers and the soulful guidance of religious leaders, we will veer dangerously toward a future of the rich getting richer and the poor being disposable. That is why I'll be a writer until my days above the ground are done. Writers together can educate through fictional stories in a way that direct teaching cannot, people need to form their own conclusions. So never let anyone belittle your talent for the written word. The world needs creative writers as much as the mathematicians and engineers, perhaps even more so.