The Plague of a Writer

By Shawny Lou

Secret Shopper 1I penned this several weeks ago after experiencing heaviness over the characters  in my novel. It’s amazing how a fictional story can come to life and have such an affect on the writer.

If you read my personal blog, Writing in a Raindrop, it may look familiar. I posted it there soon after writing it.

Enjoy!

* * *

Writing, for me, is a dream come true

To share my imagined worlds with you

I’d hate to return to the nine to five

‘Cuz writing is what makes me feel alive

I take the characters from inside my mindPen on paper 2

And put them on paper for you to find

They’re funny and loving and crazy, too

Even I get surprised by the things that they do

I know when I write, it is why I was made

I’m just not complete in a “regular” trade

But sometimes I wonder how I will get through

For writing, it comes with some negatives, too

The brain of a writer, it never shuts down

When we lay on a pillow, we’re dancing through town

Although we may sleep, we are penning all night

For our dreams create tales which we know we must write

A writer gets trapped in the stories she makes

And sometimes I wonder if it’s worth the high stakes

To write in a manner that touches the soul

A writer must carry a burdensome toll

When I write of a mother, swept off by the wavesP1020854

I must research the truth of those watery graves

Photos of souls who were lost to the seas

Have covered my joy and brought me to my knees

My spirit is heavy when my characters cry

And it’s hard to see sunshine, despite how I try

When I write of a killer or ghosts in the floor

They cling to my psyche for weeks, if not more

A writer exposes her heart through the pen

And risks great rejection again and again

We must be creative and very well versed

Yet sometimes I ask, “are we blessed or just cursed?”

You know you’re a writer if you’ve scribbled since youth

Expressing yourself through the letters of truth

If a drive puts a story inside of your head

And the tale comes to life while you’re lying in bed

When you look at a stranger and imagine a scene

Provide him a name and a lesson to glean

Then there is a chance you’ve the gift of the ink

But please be prepared to be pushed to the brink

Yes, writing is special, it frees me inside

And I love being trapped on this magical ride

But I never expected, in all of my years

That writing my stories would bring me to tears

The trials and turmoil my characters faceshackles

Can shackle my mind at a whirlwind pace

The darkness they suffer can bring me such pain

As if cuffed in a dungeon and tied to a chain

But give me the key and I surely would perish

For a writer must write of the fables they cherish

Yes, I am a writer, it’s the card I was handed

The title to which I’ve been bonded and branded

As I scribble my stories, it’s my way of giving

When I silence my pen, then I’ll cease to be living

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