The Writer's Magic Wand by djsgjg0045

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									If anybody should ask, which profession comes closest to having the power of the
Creator, almost every one would cite his own:
  The priest would say he preaches, so he has the spirit. The engineer would say he
builds, so he likewise creates. The lawyer would say he finds truth, so he dispenses
justice. The educator would say he teaches, so he molds a person's mind. The
politician would say he administers, so he controls the people. The father would say
he works, therefore he supports life. The mother would say she cares, therefore she
loves.
  Et. al.
  If, again, anybody should ask, which profession can take every one of us from the
lofts of heaven to the depths of hell, who can pry the deepest secrets of our soul and
skim the shallows of human emotions, describe worlds and planets yet to be
discovered, interfere with the fabric of time, realign the warp of space, interpret the
thoughts of demons, monsters, and ogres, demystify the songs of angels and babies,
all without stirring from the comfort of his seat and using only the power of his pen?
  The writer!
  The writer creates what comes to him in fits of inspiration, sometimes in the
unlikeliest of places and occasions, oftentimes in moments of solitude and boredom.
Limited only by the boundaries of his imagination, he conjures up scenes of frightful
horrors to interweave with glimpses of blissful blessedness. Depending on his whim,
he becomes a lover, or a lunatic, or a mad man, or all three at the same instant. He will
destroy the earth with every known methodology and many others not even invented,
but rebuild it in one brief breathe restored in glory or mayhem. Genius and insanity
both dwell in his brain.
  There is no sorcerer that has the writer's spell and no magician comparable in
trickery to him. If he so chooses, everyone is his enemy or plaything, and everywhere
is his battleground or playground. Absolutely nothing escapes his sword thrusts, and
absolutely nothing he is afraid of.
  Perhaps, except one: deadlines!
  The writer, for all his avowed mastery, is still part of humanity. It is here where he
draws his feelings, gathers his thoughts, and plucks his inspirations. It is also here
where he gets his sustenance, which he must have in order to continue surviving,
which in turn is entirely dependent on the unrelenting notion of on-time submission.
  Nevertheless, nobody else is aware how far his authority extends, and he is not
revealing his secret. It is enough for the rest of the world to continue existing in
ignorance, because otherwise he would be forced to summon the forces in his
command to erase the giggle chips from their memories. More likely, he would
simply wave his magic wand, utter abracadabra or whatever seems applicable, and set
all things aright once again.
  The magic is the writer's imagination, and the wand is his pen, or, as more
necessitated in this era of information technology, his word processor.


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