Writers are passionate about their writing and no few probably see themselves as white knights leading the charge, astride their charging destrier of determination, welding the lance of justice.
No? Just me, oh well. Excuse me while I get this armor off, its kinda heavy and cumbersome.
As I was saying writers tend to feel passionate on topics they read and/or write about. In a previous soapbox tirade, I wrote about my eight or nine year old self writing an editorial on sharks secure in the unfailing knowlege that it would read and taken seriously. That passionate youngster had no fear of being rejected, ridiculed, or otherwise ignored. How wonderful to recapture that youthful vigor, that unabashed rightous fire. Oh if I could have bottled it and sold it. The zilllions I could have made.
You are probably going, yeah, so what does that have to do with me now. A good question, it means going back to when the need to voice yourself in words first arose. What catlyst was the spontanious combustion that set your writer’s heart and soul aflame?
Then you hold onto that ever burning spark, bringing it back from the distant or not so distant past to your current writing. Recapture the moment when the pen leaped into your hand and pen strokes became magical words, your words. Secure in the knowlege that they are powerful and deserve the chance to be read, because they are words from the depths of your writer’s heart and soul.
Glad we could have this little chat. You’ll have to excuse me, I have dragons to ride and villians to slay, the horse is getting antsy and that lance isn’t going to work itself. Cheers on a Thursday night, james