He struggles… internally his emotions are a tangle as he sorts through the labyrinth of his own mind. On the outside he is calm, a placid lake. He chews his pen and contemplates his next piece. Like the artist, with their visual minds, a writer can see their finished work. It is sometimes a distant horizon, an unsure future over a faraway hill, and yet the writer knows it is there. Much like a blind man can still feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face, so too can the author feel something important is about to climax.
His pen moves like a paintbrush, painting the canvas of the reader’s mind with tales and stories never seen or heard before. It is this foreign invasion of ideas and dreams that draw people to reading. It is why the writer is. The pen may just be mightier than the sword, for daily it conjures up whole armies of men with passion, demonic adversaries, and stories of triumph. What sword has ever lived through as many painful lives, joyous memories, and future aspirations as a pen does for any with the strength of arm to wield it.
The writer remains motionless, but if you could peel back his skull and see the gears turning it would inspire even the oldest clock maker to find his passion again. Beautiful to behold, and yet it is at the same time scary to imagine what such a mind might do if trapped or tormented forever. The words that might erupt from such a mountain, astonishing anger could certainly come from this same source. The writer simply smiles at these notions. To the writer his body represents a beacon channeling thought onto paper, parchment, or even dirt. To record our past is to ensure our future learns and becomes better from it. Well, we can hope this is true. Such notions are for scholars, the writer just writes.