Wednesday, 11 April 2012

The writer



She sits at her desk, oblivious to her surroundings, taking refuge in the open notebook and joy in the blue scrawls of her pen. This is her world, her passion, her life. She enjoys the recluse, the serenity of the place she can call her own. And without stepping out of this sanctuary she can visit places anywhere- in this world and the next. Her little desk supports her weight and the burden of her thoughts. The blank sheets of paper silently, without complaining bear anything- from the dread of death to the bliss of life; just like her pen which can kill as well as create. And she is the leader of this orchestra, the commander of this army, the monarch of a kingdom of her own making. Together with her tools- no, her friends-she creates magic...

Her sparkling web of stories humours, influences, encourages or simply awes millions of readers around the globe. She can make them smile, laugh and on many occasions cry out loud for the beauty and sadness of it all. She can make make them feel proud in the same way she can make them feel sorry. She writes and they read. She makes them hear music of hope where there is only the sound of death. 

People think that she is like the characters she writes. But few know, she is not her characters; they have an identity of their own. She is not them, just as they are not her. She is not the person in her stories. She is someone else. Someone not seen, seldom heard from. Someone who everyone recognises but no one truly knows. And in this anonymity she finds her fame...

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