Is it someone who writes every day?
Someone who makes a living writing?
Someone who sells books?
Someone who holds the quiet of a room dear?
Or is it perhaps someone who captures your mood?
To me, a writer is, well, any person who writes.
She doesn’t have to sell books.
She doesn’t have to be paid to write.
She doesn’t even have to write all that much every day.
What a writer does, to my mind,
Is to sit down before a white page
And craft something out of words:
A story, an article, a blog post, a poem, a play.
Anything will do.
A few lines will do, a few words.
A writer is someone who undresses herself
Of her solitude, of her fears, of her fantasies too,
And doesn’t get cold, because she wraps herself up in words.
For her, writing is not an act but a habit
As natural as breathing or eating,
And just like air or food,
She needs it every day.
She needs it so that
She will not lose herself
In the din and the silence,
The sadness and the joy,
Of tomorrow and tomorrow