A writer is an innocent liar, a soother of troubled minds, a gluer of broken hearts, a dreamer of forgotten dreams, an adventurer afraid of heights.
Whether he is called a poet, a novelist, a playwright, a screen writer, or a journalist, a writer observes the world around him, and especially people, and what they do and how they do it, and he writes.
A writer cannot dance, or sing, or paint, or draw, or mold shapes out of clay, but when he writes, he does all those things, and many more besides.
A writer writes because he hates the world he lives in and his person, and needs to create an alternative world to which he can escape. A writer also writes because he loves the world he lives in and his person, and wants to praise them both.
Solitude, quiet living, and genes make a writer shy and reserved when in the company of others. He listens more than he talks, and he listens well, and hears many stories, which he then writes, so they will not be forgotten.
A bundle of mischievous atoms in the daylight, a well of tears at night, a writer is often happy, often sad, depending on the alignment of the planets, and on the seasons.
To make you laugh, a writer tickles himself.
A writer is as lazy as he is hardworking. He can do nothing useful for weeks, months, and then one day, by inspirational chance or chance inspiration, he starts to write, and he writes incessantly for days, weeks, months, and to him what he does is not work, but play.
A writer looks like other people, does what other people do, and loves and hates like other people, and yet, he is more than other people, because when they assembled him at the human factory, they added to him a tiny cog than they did not give to other people.
(This was first published last year.)
A writer is caviar in a can of beans.