Writers are Bizarre, oh yes they are. I feel certain the majority of authors know this – those who don’t have not yet had their epiphany or come to terms with the fact. If the truth be told they are more than strange, they are obsessive odd balls bordering on schizophrenia. I suspect many have prescriptions but refuse to take the psychotropic medication because it hinders their creativity. They need to feel alive; to interact with the personalities dueling inside their heads, not subdue them. Their characters must be allowed a chance at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as well as the right to die.
Writers are bizarre, oh yes they are. From my observations this peculiarity seems to afflict creative writers especially. Creative writers and poets. Oh, poets are creative writers? Okay. Poets are a also a grievous lot. They are constantly imagining, seeing, and feeling or thinking. They are a curious hand with six digits and a raw nerve. Most of them are bereaved with some sort of incurable pain. Odd thing is it’s usually not their pain but the aches of every one and every thing around them as if they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders. On occasion one will write about the joy or beauty found in something. Usually that something is what the rest of earth’s inhabitants dismiss or take for granted on a daily basis.
Writers are bizarre, oh yes indeed they are. They carve out niches for indolent thoughts, sow seeds of cerebration, offer rest to weary secrets, and give birth to imagination.
Now what sort of world would this be without these flaky, freakish, alien-like individuals?
Gone would be the greens and reds, lost to slow decay. In place of all the rainbows bled – a shade of muted gray.