The Hands of a Writer
My hands are not calloused, they are soft, gentle. They are the hands of a creator, but stone and steel I do not build with. These hands are made for more delicate things. I build words, phrases, clauses, paragraphs, ideas, but more importantly, worlds.
Though I build worlds, people do not call me god. They call me man.
A brooding baron of the ballpoint pen.
A fearful pharaoh of the word processor.
I am those things, but more. I am a writer. Talk is cheap, but words, words are expensive.