Writers and Scriptwriter

When one is dedicated to the craft of writing, either by inspiration, devotion, money, anxiety, vexation, for relief or simple desire to communicate something that you have very deep and you want to share, falls headlong into one of the thin line between the writer of the scribbler. The writer is recursive, original, Almada and also heartless, lonely but incredibly tortuous social, manipulator of words and emotions, sculptor of illusions and there are those who say they possessed. Possessed by demons, by his muses for his hallucinations and his most intimate fears. That coexists with fears and facing on paper, on the keyboard, the murderer of a sound commercial printer. A Quixote mills whose armor is rusted with tears and whose squire is a playful elf constantly kidnaps his lady called Inspiration. The writer however, is a prisoner of words. Hired a murderer who shoots them every day to check with the very clever horror avoid their bullets faster than the protagonist of The Matrix. The writer has no heart or soul. They were sold to a publisher called devil torments him daily reminder that deadlines are met or the checks stop coming.

It is a puppet that has no stable romantic relationship, we are just friends and not enough to determine whether the last time you had sex was with someone of flesh and bone or one of its characters. Write up work and spends the nights long. You can not eat alphabet soup because it feels threatened. Coffee is your drug of choice and no longer recite poetry. He smiles when he kills the characters that people own funeral when he learns of a death. In between the two and because of the two, we find the literature professor who struggles to teach literary analysis and empelicula with some stories that are intoxicating, no matter what your students are numbing. Do not try to teach writing because he knows that nobody can do it, even a cellmate with airs of the prison boss. Have you read so much that when he writes, no longer knows if his words or those of Shakespeare, Baudelaire, Leavitt, Steinbeck, Borges, Faulkner, or even your neighbor who writes bad spelling and brazenly adjectival. Now that I think I've been in the shoes of the three and I still wonder if I am a writer, scribbler or a simple teacher who has the audacity to write to test that lying in bed the other to see if it is heated, Worse is so fucking cold I just forget if I lay on the bed of a dead man if I'm qualified for a writer or just a scribbler who dreamed of being a scribbler escitor who disdained him.

And you, how are you?