Content writers are a strange breed as all creative souls are.
They live, breathe and bleed writing. They live for it. It is their motivating force. Without it they would indeed be much like a fish without water. Not that they would die but they would certainly feel like it.
The endless hours of writing and the additional hours of preparaation compose the writer’s day.
Barely taking time to eat he feverishly attacks his work because that is what he does. No idea is too trivial to consider.
A blade of grass. The petal on a flower or the horrific genicide that is happening in some third world country halfway around the world is not out of the reach of his grasp.
He searches the newspapers. Watches television an listens to the radio waiting to hear, see or read some new morsel of knowledge that will send him flurrying to the keyboard.
Long days and even longer nights are a condition with which he has learned to live with.
He is a creature of habit. He writes and writes and then he writes some more. Never knowing where it began or where it ended. He is caught in a continual cycle or prose, metaphor and adjective.
Words are his paint and the computer screen is his palet. His strikes are determined yet controlled.
His words build to a crescendo of grammatical expression slowing ebbing into a conclusive tag line.
After his self absorbed excursion into a typography of literary oblivion he bids farewell until tomorrow.