Writer in Panama City Beac, Florida

I've written five novels, and a creative spirit burns fiercely within me. I normally wake up early, between 4:00 AM and 5:00 AM, brew a pot of coffee, and turn on my computer. What happens next is magical. There is a repository deep within me, and I draw upon it every morning. Sentences appear on the screen, characters begin to speak, and plots thicken. I have a deep respect for those who paint. They are driven, and their need for self-expression must be satisfied. On a day away from work, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of people arm themselves with a small easel, and they trek off into the wilderness or perch upon a rocky bluff. They set up shop with canvas, brushes, and colors, and they attempt to replicate the majestic sight before them. None of these artists have anything hung in the Louvre or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and yet they paint on. Their dedication is to be admired, their need to memorialize a scene, and their love of beauty is all that matters, not the achievement of greatness, nor fame, nor fortune. I understand their quest, for I also paint. I don't use a palette or brushes or colors, however. I simply paint with words.