A FAVORITE PIECE
As I sit here in my lonely writer's loft, I stare at my enemy. I look at this blank white screen with trepidation, and fear. For am I to be the victor today or shall this screen, already knowing my fears, hesitations and self doubt, once again beat me? I am determined to win this day. I study this white glassy opponent and wonder what strategy am I to implore. Do I hit it hard landing blow after blow of my thoughts onto its white emptiness, or do I seduce it like a gentle woman, one of standing and repute. Do I let the soft gentle thoughts of my inscription sway it into a lovely sonnet of sensuous exposé, or do I just manhandle it with the words of my literary conquest. Perhaps this blank space is but a sponge to soak up the thoughts and desires of my fanciful depictions.
 

For I must write. I am driven, not out of a sense of moral outrage or indignant defiance of some moral principle. I am not out to claim the glories of the literary world and achieve the trappings of fame and glory. I do not seek to change the world with great oratory and script. I write to achieve. I write to challenge myself into going to a place that I fear. A place of emptiness, a place void of thought or speech. I write to make my soul stronger by confronting my inabilities. To prove, not to the throngs, but to myself, that there is reflection, there is contemplation, there is discourse still left in my soul.
 

I write for myself. I write to an audience of one. I write so that I may know that there is worth in what I believe and hold true. I write to satisfy my soul. I write to feed a beast inside me. A beast carnivorous for literary accomplishment and poetic prose. I will never be rich or famous for my endeavors, but I will be wealthy and acclaimed in my spirit.
 

That is not to say that should some unsuspecting soul see my works and perhaps enjoy a phrase or smile at a passage that my heart won't sing. For we all enjoy the heralding of a fellow traveler. And I will cherish that soul's accolade, but it is just a derivative of my work. It is not the motivation for which I hone my craft.
 

For I have also seen the failures of my endeavors. Page after blank page filled with the alphabetic symbols of my desires only to, in actuality say nothing at all. Words must move us, much touch the soul and prick at our hearts till we bleed emotion. I have fought and won, just as many times as I have battled only to succumb to the defeats of my own literary frailties.
 

I battle that fearsome white screen so as to accomplish growth in myself. To achieve inner victories as I have done with this blank page. A testimony as to my skill in the battle as a veracious combatant of the printed word. Today I am victorious. Today I am an author.

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