The Writer's Magic Wand

The Writer's Magic Wand

If anybody should ask, which profession comes closest to having the power of the Creator, almost every one would cite his own:

The priest would say he preaches, so he has the spirit.
The engineer would say he builds, so he likewise creates.
The lawyer would say he finds truth, so he dispenses justice.
The educator would say he teaches, so he molds a person's mind.
The politician would say he administers, so he controls the people.
The father would say he works, therefore he supports life.
The mother would say she cares, therefore she loves.

Et. al.

If, again, anybody should ask, which profession can take every one of us from the lofts of heaven to the depths of hell, who can pry the deepest secrets of our soul and skim the shallows of human emotions, describe worlds and planets yet to be discovered, interfere with the fabric of time, realign the warp of space, interpret the thoughts of demons, monsters, and ogres, demystify the songs of angels and babies, all without stirring from the comfort of his seat and using only the power of his pen?

The writer!

The writer creates what comes to him in fits of inspiration, sometimes in the unlikeliest of places and occasions, oftentimes in moments of solitude and boredom. Limited only by the boundaries of his imagination, he conjures up scenes of frightful horrors to interweave with glimpses of blissful blessedness. Depending on his whim, he becomes a lover, or a lunatic, or a mad man, or all three at the same instant. He will destroy the earth with every known methodology and many others not even invented, but rebuild it in one brief breathe restored in glory or mayhem. Genius and insanity both dwell in his brain.

There is no sorcerer that has the writer's spell and no magician comparable in trickery to him. If he so chooses, everyone is his enemy or plaything, and everywhere is his battleground or playground. Absolutely nothing escapes his sword thrusts, and absolutely nothing he is afraid of.

Perhaps, except one: deadlines!

The writer, for all his avowed mastery, is still part of humanity. It is here where he draws his feelings, gathers his thoughts, and plucks his inspirations. It is also here where he gets his sustenance, which he must have in order to continue surviving, which in turn is entirely dependent on the unrelenting notion of on-time submission.

Nevertheless, nobody else is aware how far his authority extends, and he is not revealing his secret. It is enough for the rest of the world to continue existing in ignorance, because otherwise he would be forced to summon the forces in his command to erase the giggle chips from their memories or to pluck the laughter neurons from their brains. More likely, he would simply wave his magic wand, utter abracadabra or hokus pokus or mamby jamby or whatever seems applicable, and set all things aright once again.

The magic is the writer's imagination, and the wand is his pen, or, as more necessitated in this era of information technology, his word processor.