The act of writing is such a beautiful torture. You stare at a blank page—waiting. Waiting for the story to come to you. Waiting for your consciousness to be transported to another world; a world of your own creation. A world with the power to crush your spirit or raise it to new heights.

This world starts from that blank page; a nothingness that expresses no emotion. This page, like a blank canvass in need of an artist, cries out to be painted. It demands a story to be etched onto its skin—its blankness to be filled in with feeling.

It needs you to tell a story so it can be useful—so it can be more than just a white page ignored by the world around it. Its only desire is to become art; the kind of art passed around until the very make up of its physical being is no more. It needs you to fulfill its purpose.

Your words have the power to create a whole universe—endless in size and the stories it can hold. The only thing limiting you is your willpower to sit down and create; for we all are born with imagination. And in life, we choose to let our imaginations flow like the waters of a raging river—or simply freeze like a pond in winter.

Nobody can tell you whether you’re a writer or not. Just like nobody can tell you if you’re an artist or not. If you have the ability to create—the dedication to break down the dam holding your imagination back, then you’re a writer—an artist. The only opinion of who and what you are that matters is your own. Forget what anyone else thinks.

So, use your words as the paint. Fill that blank page with emotion. Create a world nobody has ever seen. Live your dreams through your creations. And never let anyone convince you that what you do isn’t art—that what you are is anything other than a writer. It’s your life, your beautiful torture. And nobody has the right to take that away from you. You are an artist—now and forever.



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