What Unique Creatures We Are [Guest Post]

Have you ever thought about how unique writers are?

I've been pondering this lately, so when Joy sent me an email inquiring whether or not I could do a

guest post here, I knew just what I would write about. (As a warning; I've not done any form of

blogging before this so kindly bear with me if I'm a tad incoherent.)

Writers are quite different from other people. We think, evaluate, analyze, and dare I say, feel in our own unique way. We are known for being rather crazy (to put it mildly) and often absent-minded. We talk to people that live only in our heads and hearts. Our moods are based upon said people. If they are behaving themselves, the world is a place of sunshine and laughter. But if they become contrary and obstinate, refusing to reveal their names or get along with a fellow character and whatnot, we are transported to the darkest pit of despair. Our imaginations are vivid and uncharted, set aflame by the smallest bits of fuel. To a writer no conversation is private. We listen without compunction for anything that might be worth putting in a book. We people-watch, noting the particulars about each person: their eye colour, their hair, this woman's squeaky voice, the way that man's style of attire makes him look like an undercover agent, the adorable pair of Asian twins sneaking extra cookies. Nothing humorous or quirky escapes our notice, from four church ladies each spelling “casserole” in a different way on the banquet sheet, to the man next door who apparently never changes out of his night clothes. Assassination and betrayal is all in a day's work for us. We can be in a mortifying, bothersome situation and the writer part of our mind is leaning against the wall in the shadows, enjoying the absurdity and thinking, “Hmm...this would be marvelous in a book.” Words are everything to us. We keep pen and paper nearby at all times because one never knows when inspiration will strike. Obscure facts, quotes, phrases, and the like are all jotted down under the assumption that they might come in handy someday. We concoct all manner of awful predicaments for our characters and like doing so. Our minds often wander and we absently pass the salt to the wrong person because we were in the midst of a duel when we were told whom it was supposed to be given to. Improper use of words and grammar irritate us to no end. We lose sleep over sentences that refuse to be written right, tangled plots, and the Villain insisting on being a relation of the Heroine. We are inspired by the oddest things; a look in someone's eyes, a phrase in a song, a certain color, the way your Father's hair is combed back, a bit of fuzz floating along the floor. We know what it is like to lose all those dearest to us, to be burdened with a terrible secret, to kill, to live in fear and desperate hope, to be in love, to be considered an outcast, even though we may never have experienced any of these in actual fact. We are sensitive to beauty, quick to appreciate wit, and unfailingly curious. To a writer no person is ever bland or ordinary. Each one has a story just waiting to be told. 

We are unique. We are a race set apart.

We are Writers.

Annie Hawthorne is a homeschooled young lady between the ages of fifteen and twenty. She lives in the beautiful countryside with her odd and somewhat crazy family. Her passions are living for her Saviour, scribbling about a myriad of things, devouring heaps of good books, and creating with her hands. Beauty in any form thrills the very fibres of her heart and music is the unspoken language of her soul. A writer by blood and child of God by grace she strives to live life with joy no matter the circumstances.