Comrades

The writer is a strange person. Not everyone can claim that they were not lonely after five or six hours of solitary writing. Not everyone gets up at excruciatingly early times in the morning to write with the rising sun, or stays up late, watching the waning moon while their fingers pound away on a keyboard. In fact, so strange are these individuals that they are often bred from soil which does not understand them. This is how I felt growing up, I only had one friend who was a fellow writer and we were closer than any describable bond. Eventually I moved away and found myself surrounded by people, including my family, who could not understand my odd ways, eccentric habits, and all those other fun phrases I could say that mean essentially the same things. I could not discuss story plots, nor stories and how they were written.
 Then, one fateful day I came and visited Taylor University and sat in on their Professional Writing Class. Instantly I felt a connection with everyone in that room, which was filled with nods as the speaker discussed how many people say you can't make a living at writing. Now that I am here, however, the comrade feeling is all the greater. We gathered together and talked as a group, there is a planned dinner where we all sit together, and tomorrow my classes with my comrades start! I also found out that you can start a conversation with any writer by just mentioning what book you're reading. The feeling and understanding found between writer and writer is fascinating. I look forward to finding out more about it.