To call yourself a writer is to commit yourself to a life of details.

Investing in an infinite inventory of observations.

Daily occurrences viewed as metaphorical sequences.

The hickey on the girl’s neck isn’t just.

It’s the color of a blood orange and the size of a fig, grainy in texture.

The water cooler doesn’t just bubble.

It gurgles periodically to remind you of the sterile surroundings you frequent 40 hours weekly.

To call yourself a writer is to subject yourself to emotion.

Stepping outside yourself to articulate current feeling.

Walking back into thoughts to reacquaint yourself with past ones.

Bliss, contentment, depression, vengeance all studied in the moment, filed away.

The file is dug up later to bring forth the accuracy of the emotion.

Sometimes you must dig up files stored away far back for reason.

A painful muse, sometime's a necessary evil, your file of emotions give life to pages.

To call yourself a writer is to be released of fear.

Novels written in your head must find strength to be scribed.

The unknowns of your audience must be dismissed.

Thoughts becoming clear means it must be drafted, first.

A mind cluttered with details, narratives, theories of sorts.

Pencil to paper, clicking of keys, all act as the ripping of a bandage.

Pulitzers don’t just come to be, total flops don’t either.