To call my self a writer is like calling a man who doodles, an accomplished artist! But EVERYONE, no matter who, has started out just the same. With some horrible itch, sharp and heavy on their shoulders, only curable by the rapid succession of word after word. And now it’s become so acute that it has literally become my only grievance in life! I don’t care if I sell it, I don’t care if people read it, I just want it out of me and on paper because it feels such a horrible sin to do otherwise! I think there’s nothing better then the right words, elegantly placed and perfectly timed! To love something so much and yet feel so defeated by it at every glance, it’s heart breaking yet I wish it my only salvation. . . I am a man brimming, whose own relief of burden lies solely within the fathoms of his own spring. Maddening it is to be the fool who wallows ill, while cure waits beyond all reach; lovingly between fingers. . . We need, must, and have to write, and so we are WRITERS!