Hello. Are you reading this?

…

Of course you are. Excellent. You are keeping me alive as you read. Isn't that wonderful?

But never mind that for now. It's nice to meet you, fellow reader (and quite possibly writer). Allow me the seconds it takes your eyes to scan this page to allow me to introduce myself.

I am a Word Devourer. (And no, I have no surname or family name that separates me from any other Word Devourer.) I am a nonhuman human, a shapeshifter. My body and its functions are entirely comprised of words, and-depending on the situation-can change and react to whatever words I eat. I travel between the realms of ink, page, and imagination.

I'm basically living inside of you, your imagination, trapped. I am not truly “born” until I am deposited from a pen or pencil or keyboard, and then I immediately take form and prey on words to survive. I use the vocabulary you know and created to get me going. I think you call it inspiration? That's what I feed upon. The more inspiring the words are to my fancy, the longer I live.

Let me tell you a little more about myself (I hope by now that I have sparked your interest). I am one of the Word Devourers that roam cyberspace…. I particularly like this place known as Fictionpress dot com, don't you? Hundreds of thousands of words to prey upon, then morph them into my own story to my fancy. I think you call it “stealing”…plagiarizing is an apt word too. But I am actually just taking a little piece of them, and changing it to my fancy. That's inspiration, is it not? I don't call it stealing, because I am not directly copying your words, just learning about them. So don't bother to fear or resent me-it is pointless. Not only that, you created me, as I mentioned before. Isn't that nice?

Every author has a Word Devourer with it. Although we are embodiments of plagiarism, we are also embodiments of inspiration, wherever they may come from. You may never notice our presence, but we are your guardians, as well as your temptation. We also deal with all your feelings: depression, happiness, angst…we are constantly a part of you, even as we strive out on our own. We must deal with your thoughts and feel what you feel, which makes our lives a great joy as well as a great burden. And if you ever need us, well, we might lend you some of the inspiration we find. I am invisible to the eye alone. Use your imagination and you'll see me there. But just remember, we are numerous as bacteria, and can be as destructive as them.

Now, back to our “darker” side, we wander between word and page constantly, mercilessly absorbing a story or lines that catch our fancy. This wonder known as “reviews” also keeps me going. I long to know as much as I can about styles of writing, new words, everything. I am insatiable…just like you writers. It's how I live, it's how I reproduce my own reserve energy when there's no one's words to steal. I can tear words straight off of pages, and replace them with mimics… but don't worry, these “mimics” appear the same, and have the original affect when read. (I believe that when you splash water on these “mimic” words when they are on paper, or after a long period of time, they wear away. Although I am not sorry to say that by then, it is too late to do anything about it).

Not only that, the words I see can become real life objects to me. If I see the word "bridge", for example, I can walk over it as if it were such. Even strings of words can become real-life objects to me. Isn't that a dream come true for you writers? To have your inspiration to actually be played out in life? It makes you wish you were me, possibly.

But if I somehow lose the words that I've devoured (say, having them damaged or destroyed at their source), I lose that form. I usually can't become something unless I understand it either. So I usually stay a silhouette made of thousands of tiny words, a vague human form, stalking through authors' pages, preying on them. I require constant inspiration or ideas to keep me alive and energized.

But I didn't used to be as nonchalant as I am now, as open as to telling you this. Us Word Devourers have it harder than you think, despite taking everything for granted. We feel things like you do, can die like you (disregarding old age), and the words we eat can destroy us. If, after a long period of time, we can find no new words to devour, we die a very painful death. Basically: If your inspiration dies and I can find no other, I die.

Remember how I said we feel what you feel? It makes being dumped in a vat of acid inside an active volcano seem pleasant.

And to prove what I mean, I can tell you that I was foolish enough (thanks to my host's whims and my own), to once be something like exiled. Banned, I think it was? Either way, I had given into temptation and directly plagiarized, and was caught. I was off limits from all other author's stories and works. So why didn't I construct my own? I was foolish enough to not know how. I had relied on others for so long for inspiration I no longer knew how to inspire myself.

I nearly died that day.

I found out what Writers' Block was that day too. A terrible ailment, so painful I can hear the author's heart breaking. I was restless, suspended, couldn't do anything as my life energy dwindled.

...You know, it's frightening to be suspended like that, to want to continue on, but can't. I had never tasted the word “fear” before that day.

And I wondered that day…is this what writers felt like when faced with a block they couldn't possibly overcome? Was it really like eating as much as you want all your life, then suddenly not being able to eat at all? It is more than I can understand, more than words only can describe or understand.

But I am sure you understand what I'm saying, in some way. After all, we are part of each other, even if we are in separate forms, separate entities. I am sure, if you have written before, you understand this feeling. But I would like to tell you the story about having no will to write a little differently, from the eyes of a Word Devourer, the best I can.

Who knew the most painful thing in life was a life without imagination?