Work in progress, writer’s write not sleep.

It’s been a while (a long while) since I last wrote anything. It’s a situation when life and situations come in between you and your craft. In this case, my life came in between me and my writing. When I could have spent hours crafting away the next book, I spent it couching away; over old DVDs and hosting imaginary friends.

There’s a “work in progress” folder in my iBook. It’s there to remind me, I’ve got book projects a plenty. Each time, an idea comes to me; I piece it together and open a project folder. There is no shortage of ideas for a book. The only obstacle is my own perverted laziness. The kind of laziness that causes you to spend all your money, moan about the pains of the world and make you a pain in everyone’s butts.

In short, I’ve been a jackass to my craft.

I’m a writer and writers write. That’s what we do best. It’s the only thing we know how to do well. We put thought into words. We unveil the mysteries of everyday life. We unfold the jigsaw of circumstances that play before us for an audience to understand and remember. We draw laughter, shed tears, inspire minds, create arguments and drive passion with a compilation of words, formed into sentences that spark the intellect.

We are writers and we write; not sleep on the job.

We are people of the script. We fashion words out of thin air. We watch and bother about the lives of those we see pass through our field of vision. This came to mind (as I write this):

The cold washed over her face, and she shudder to think that she was all alone, in the street, walking home in the rain. Her makeup did not hold, her mascara a stream of black on pale skin. Yet it help mask the tears. The pain. The anguish. She was lost for a moment, standing by the street corner, where the stand sold burgers for a ringgit and half. In the rain, all roads look the same and no matter which path she took, it was all the same. She would still be alone. Lonely and depressed. In the rain, all roads lead to the same conclusion. And she stood there, pondering her choices while the burger-stand man stood watching and wondered if he should stop selling burgers for a ringgit and half.

Creativity is 10% inspiration, 90% hard work. We are writers. I am a writer and it’s time I started writing. I’ve got all those “work in progress” folders to clear out.

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