They say, “Writers are a channel through which thoughts, ideas and words are transferred.”
They’ll say, “I never wrote a single word, rather a bolt of lightning stuck, and electricity occurred”.
They are fully unaware.
That bolt runs rigid through your bones, plunges straight through your core.
Your words are no longer your own.
Your hand flutters and spills thoughts of another.
They say it is a “gift.”
Sadly, they do not know the burden that it carries.
A gift it may be, but as a curse, it weighs just as heavy.
To deal with just ONE man’s mind is a laboring chore…
To channel through him thoughts much more creative, and more wise than his own…
Can only absorbed as punishment.
Torture in knowing that your best thoughts, that your soaring ideas, your sense of any inkling of individuality are not your own, that these thoughts, these ideas, that sense of individuality belong to another and are a carbon copy of your own.
You are just the antenna.
A receiver, left on your own.
And you wonder why all great writers drink alone.