by Monica R. Ashbaugh, 9/23/16, 3AMish, the writer’s gloaming hour.
A writer’s work is their atonement to life, their at-one-ment for living, at-one-ment with reader. Writers sacrifice their own selves to tell a story. They splay themselves, unabashedly exposed, nakedly vulnerable, across the page. A writer cannot be reserved in words. A writer cannot afford privacy. Each paragraph written strips a layer of self away. Those layers cannot be replaced, once exposed–a writer cannot be hidden again. Each writing peels layer after layer, until nothing remains, except the story. A writer takes their own suffering and uses it as fodder to bring a reader to a page. A reader can detect the integrity of pain, the rawness of suffering. It cannot be imitated. The best writers are the ones who have fought the hardest battles with life. Win or lose, they always have their tales to tell around the fire, these battle-scarred, weary bards. Good writers do not die. They fade away, absorbed into the literary ethers, as there is nothing left of them to give.
Photo by Monica R. Ashbaugh, 9/10/16