Loosed latches

Writers! Rowdy bastards! But not always… My kind of writer is a quiet one; at least until they have something worth reading – by me. No one else matters you see. 

It’s a funny thing, I used to be a writer. Still am maybe, but, just because I can slay a man in his sleep, doesn’t mean I should, see?

Just because you can write, doesn’t mean that you write well, or that you should share your writings with anyone. I don’t know, maybe it’s an excuse. Before I turned 11, I never wrote a damn thing, except my homework, and sometimes, not even that.

Then I turned 11, and whoa! Poetry, essays, songs... they all came pouring out. Ten years, multiple essays, songs and two hand-written novels later, I got a job as a writer. It killed my talent. Killed? No. Put it in a deep coma. Haven’t written anything worth reading in almost 10 years, until now. It’s a monster seeking to devour the planet, and I just loosed the latch.