The Story of a Writer. [Short]

This is the story of a man who inspired thousands,
Of a man like other men, like some other men, and like no other man.
There was a tidiness that drove him, the need to  organize and keep clean, there was a smoothness to its ease of efficiency and a peace that emanated when all things around him where in useful position. It was at these moments between the chaos of disorder and dirty carpets, when all was as should be, when cleanliness surely did bring on something next to godliness, that he would sit at his mahogany desk, one of the few finer things he cherished, and look out across the caddies of colored pens and markers, of fine point and broad, of recent library acquisitions, and the yellow note pads that held pages of his previous thoughts. There was something in the air of the desk, the smell of the bound book pages that entranced him and every time he sat there amongst all orderly things he marveled at the beauty, these catalysts of his creations. He would sit back in his chair and pull out the old off white type writer that he had found or otherwise borrowed for a time infinite from an abandoned house he perused on one of his many earlier adventures with his greatest of friends, and he would blow off the dust that had gathered on it, scroll the wheel and load a sheet of stellar white paper, checking to ensure the borders where properly aligned to give the most words per horizontal line. It did upset him to run into a wall when his words were flowing; And so he sat and stared out across his desk to the balcony doors that were swept open in view of the beautiful greens of spring trees and sprouting grass. There was an outcrop of sandy rocks that were as large as a man and all spawning in differing directions, more than a few times he had played the balancing act upon them,  jumping from one to the next in quick successive rhythm. There was something about the act of dangerous balance that he did so belove. It was a metaphor of life perhaps. The first keystroke always came after a noted concentration of what would capture him in that particular moment of his life. Sometimes it was a dark path at night that only a brave lone boy would travel, sometimes it was the misadventures of fiery young woman whose eternal questions took shape in the woods, and sometimes it was simply the wandering words that would work there way into your mind waiting for the right moment to strike.
He loved writing. Imagery had entertained his mind since boyhood when still as he remembers today the great contrast between the light and dark, the shining of the sun and the darkness of night. He remember being fascinated with insects of all sorts, from the crawling lady bug, to the buzzing bee, the yellow hornet, and the preying mantis. He had a Venus fly trap at this time and was enthralled at how a plant would eat a fly. Flies he didn’t care for, nor mosqitos. They were nagging creatures that held little interest for him. Once, when he saw the larva of mosqitos in still water that had gathered outside his childhood home he realized just how disgusting the whole life of mosquitos were. They were by far his least favorite insect. Now we were talking of writing and this may seem as a side step but it’s important for one to know the things that interest any writer. It gives context into the study of the writer, knowing what the writer himself has studied. This writer happened to be born in an area of great superstition, the religious here were many and few-and-far between were those of other sort. He attended the vocational studies of bible tales of old and new, learned all the sing a long songs they rehearsed the children in. He remembered them to this day. Frightening one might think when an adult who’s now seen more of the world can put objectivity to these songs. It amazed him what rhythm can do for words and how they can be retained for years upon years.
Song had always delighted him, the old songs of past generations, those hits that his parents would seem to travel back in time with, and the popular music that endeared his childhood to the 90’s. The rhythm of words he had always heard, and as sure as he aged, he knew there place. And so with his gazing out on the scenes of nature far and below his second story balcony he began to type. I can’t at the moment share with you these words he wrote with each typed letter, for as you very well may know, writers keep much to themselves. I can tell you though this day held something special in each ink block of print, in that it was the starting of a trail that would lead this man of many, this writer of writers, into a story that would change the course of his life.

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