Writers are people who feel deeply. Their skin tingles at a drop of rain, their hands soak up texture like a sponge to moisture. A meaningless moment can be the brink of a story, or a springboard for reckless abandon. And so the mundane becomes the spectacular and the real remains surreal. A writer does not walk but press forward, neither do they desire but hope, breathing the world in more deeply, their lungs filling with inspiration. Yet, on their brow lingers perspiration - a writer's constant companion.
Is this why we are so troubled? Do we feel where others cannot? Do our genes contain more sensory receptors than the rest of the population? Are we translators for the people? If these things are so, then perhaps we did not choose to write, but were born to.
