The art of writing is a delicate one. Starting in the mind, the imagination weaves and winds through memories and experiences into the deepest, darkest, depths of the unconscious where the unthinkable lies. From it pounces pictures and words like wild beasts, desperate to escape the neurotic maze of the mind, which only true bearers of the word can control. The brains nerves form a net around these electric images capturing them and pulling them into the dreams of the writer. When the writer closes her eyes, the colours and swirling images fill her mind, she must uncover the hidden significance, the moral importance and immediate urgency of the feral words trapped in her mind. It is a challenge that few overcome. Her battle must persist as she sits in front of her writer’s easel and lets the images pour from within her, onto the blank page, filling it with a unique tale, an impeccable story. As the last sentence is typed and the worn and shaken fingers removed from the hard and cold keys, her battle has been won and the agitated mind no longer stirs vividly, instead it looks down with pride at the story it has managed to conceive from its pure impulses. The art of writing is a delicate and difficult one that only few can master. One that, hopefully, I can.
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