Matt. 10: 16 Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.I have read where writers have this disease that they give to other writers. It’s called the writing bug. They go around encouraging them to write, helps them along in their WIP (that’s Work In Progress for those not in the know) and sees their friends through the tough times.
I have many writing friends in various communities. I’ve had friends die, move on in their own lives, and some who’ve walked forward without ever looking back to see where it was that they came from. I’ve also watched successful writers hang onto those who've helped them get to where it was they were going.
We’re a strong breed, us writers. When we’re slapped in the face with diversity, we rise to the challenge and slap it back with words. When we’re clobbered by more people taking out money (just because legally they can), and no one putting anything IN to your bank, when people run away from you instead of run TO you, because they are afraid that this freaky evil gnome that has you by the hair, might see them and try taking them down, also.
What they don’t realize is that the gnome has spread across the gardens of the world because people have relished their adorable idealistic seeds for centuries. Cute little harmless evil gnomes? When have you ever known evil to be cute and harmless??? NEVER!
I’m researching Writers Who’ve Committed Suicide and I’m finding that in some instances the evil gnome has won the fight. I was taken to a Wikipedia page and it listed over 275 writers, whether literary, poets, columnists, or historians, that have committed suicide, because the sword was mightier than the pen.
Just what is it that drives a writer to do the deed? I can bet it is loneliness. They’ve cornered themselves into isolation. All their ‘so-called’ friends abandoned them at their time of pivotal need, and they lay there and slowly sliced their veins, throats; cut out their hearts with a single blade; jumped from a cliff, bridge or overpass, all just to be rid of the nothingness that they felt.
Writer’s don’t carry diseases around and disperse of them. They have a pen in their hand and way too much love in their heart. As I sit here and tears stream down my face causing the puddles to form into a pond of hurt, I find solace in my writing, my isolation, my pain, because with of this clobbering me in the face and no one to hear the sobs, I find pieces of myself strewn all about, and it is up to me to put all the pieces back together, alone.
I watch as the hypocrites use the Lord for their own gain. I watch as they lurk around corners with smiles and pleasantries trying to attack that one little lonely isolated unsuspecting lamb who chose this fork in the road instead of the other. I watch as they become something deviant and I watch as I go, down the right path, into the Lords arms.
I'm NEVER alone as long as I have Him!
Luke 10: 3 Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves.