Ever since man invented the tools, the craft, the language, formula and the style of writing, he began the arduous task of laying down his thoughts, ideas and even his fears, strengths and almost everything embedded in his memory.  Written down were his so called imprints, evidence that once upon a time, he occupied a space in the universe and tried to contribute to eternal consciousness.

Writing is a product of his mind, a summation of his thoughts.  It is a process he invented in attempting to pass on whatever lessons he has learned, whatever developments and triumphs he has accumulated so that those behind him will be able to enjoy and benefit from.  It is about his reflections, it is about his dreams, his aspirations, frustrations, pains, afflictions and agonizing moments.  He may not have evolved completely to be that ideal persona he wished biology to take care of, but his lifestyle has changed radically ever since he successfully wielded the pen.

The books accumulated by writers contributed much to humankind’s strength.  It has become his guide, his roadmap, his reference to live fully.  Note that countries with greater readership are prosperous relatively speaking.  They have advanced considerably well.  Even in struggling economies, those who are well read are well off than their counterparts.

The writer therefore is a specie completely to be studied in isolation.  His orientation and perspective are different from others whose persuasion is on another field.  He may be sedate most of the time, a bit irritable and prickly, cantankerous even and to a certain extent petulant but that is his nature.  He may even suspect that he is possessed, endowed with demons and ill tempered.  There are several cases where writers are hermitic and difficult to please.  They are never successful as a pillar of the family.  They rejoice at loneliness and solitary life is the apex of their happiness.  It is in this state that they derive full satisfaction, and it is in pure seclusion that their creativity is fully expressed.  They belong to the world even if their own is just a simple nook.

The writer is one who has managed to evolve himself totally from his fledging predecessors.  Writing has become his passion, whether he is aware or not, if only to share instinctively an idea to the world.  He may be utterly asocial or anti-social, shunning entirely from the glare of any relationship but his product has stimulated progress to a full generation.

Society never celebrates the presence of a writer unless he is gone.  His respect lies only once he reaches life hereafter.  In reality however writers never die at all.  Their writings are perpetual reminders that he is still living not only in the memories of those he touched but tied in the developments which mankind enjoys.


About vjtesoro

A perpetual student of Corrections

Posted on August 30, 2012, in Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Hey! I don’t subscribe to that romanticized image of a writer – that of someone who revels at being left alone. I like to think solitude is often necessary to bring about what needs to be said, but whatever ended up written I’d like to think, was grappled and strangled by the writer in the barroom fight they call life.

    I like to think of writers as those crazy drunkards who can’t get enough of life. They gorge themselves on everything and vomit what they can no longer take in into a form they call poems, and stories.



  2. You are correct there. Writers merely express their thoughts and ideas derived from frustrations. They try to twist reality to conform to their expectations. They are loners but never wanted to be left alone. I wrote a blog about writers not necessarily to define them or to confine their expression by defining their character but to lump certain characteristics that make up his predicament. He wanted to remold his environment according to his will. Failing, he reinvents what surrounds him and compose a reality which he can understand.


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