A/n: Don't be insulted that I stereotyped all writers. Remember, I am one of them. And yeah, I know this was random, I can't even remember why I began writing it.


I have heard that there are some writers who are struck by their inspiration, their muse. The creativity wells up and sporadically spatters onto the paper, or appears on the computer screen. For hours they'll go, not stopping until their words are completely spent. They disregard their hunger and thirst as they fulfill their drive. And when they're done, they sit exhausted and satisfied with what they have created.

There are others who labor, struggling endlessly to get each phrase just right, and when it is everything clicks in their mind. Over and over they revise trying to get that feeling. Everything's perfect at last. Except it's not. They throw the papers in the trash, they maliciously destroy their own creations, disgusted by how it's not quite right and won't ever be. There is no confidence in their own abilities, and they are their own worst enemy. Criticizing whatever they accomplish, they never quite feel accomplished enough.

And have you seen her/him? Always walking by with a notebook in hand. Or perhaps they are sitting on a park bench scribbling away, oblivious to everything else. If anyone asks what it is they are writing, they coldly answer the inquisitive person, desperate to get away. And when they do, they find yet another place to sit, and to create. What is it they write about? As if you'll ever know. They seem deep and mysterious to most, but you think it's pathetic. There is nothing so special that it needs to remain hidden from the rest of the world. If it's something personal, then don't write so openly, you want to say, only just resisting the temptation.

And there is the idea of a writer, falsely glamorized. They are a drunk, they chain smoke. Anti social to the max, they have few close friends. An insomniac, their ultimate inspiration comes to them in the midst of a binge, at an hour when no one else dares to be awake. In a darkened apartment, they type away. The screen illuminates their face in a blue glow, accentuating the dark circles under their eyes. Though their mind matches their disheveled appearance, their words are clear and precise, cynical and cutting; their work manages to be humorous, ironically sarcastic. Wonderful. They will harass their editor for the sheer hell of it, and damn it all, they are a professional writer. They live on the profits of their own creativity, as if to spite the world.

The aspiring writer is a strange breed. Desperate for feedback and craving acknowledgement of their abilities, they have a part-time job, or school, and it interferes with their would be profession. To say they want attention is too stereotypical to be considered truth. Some are fearfully shy, and no one they know has knowledge of their aspirations. Others openly sit, writing, and happily answer when someone asks what they are doing. They brag about it. "I'm writing my novel." Though they boast, not much comes from it, and it is politely rejected by many publishers. This is a good thing as they are too vain. They are many more subspecies of aspiring writers, but endless as they are, it is too boring to bother with listing them.

Some, no matter the material evidence of their success, are convinced they are unskilled. Nothing can be done to sway their opinion, and their lack of confidence is considered cute and humble. Really it is an inferiority complex. And there are some, who have an endless amount of pretentions about their own skills and success. They are the ones who will corner you at a party. You try to avoid them like the black plague, and should you attempt to crush their pretentions, they will assure their ego that you are merely jealous.

For a few, they hate the compulsion that moves their fingers, capturing the words to thoughts they cannot help. All the same they love it. It controls their lives. If it means total ostracization, then they wearily will accept that as a consequence. Rarely secure financially, they are a slave to the whims of their muse. Let it be known that the frenzy in their mind makes it way to paper and the contents surprise and shock anyone who dares to look at it. Possibly under the influence of drugs, they have quite become society's idea of a responsible adult.

Oh yes, there are all types. Every breed of writer has one thing in common, quite obviously, they all write. Some do so with a horrible lack of skill and appalling grammar, while others do so with talent and creativity. Admire the difficulty with which each continues to exist, and remember dear reader, that they do not always cater to your whims.