It was a snow white day when the mirror first exposed the life altering sign. The pot was invoked. She is not a writer after all, had been tattooed to the fleshy part of her brain. Had she only been standing on the podium of misappropriated ink, a misfortune of desiring and not truly being?
Years earlier her heart could not speak over her lips so she conjured ink to story through her fingertips. To the invocation ceremony she invited her past and present influences, Lewis Carroll, Mary Magdalene, Pierre Abelard, Jane Austen, Haruki Murakami, Antony and the Johnsons, Nina Simone, Leonard Cohen, her Parents, children and friends. Each guest present poured a vial of their blood and sweat into the ink pot. She dips her fingers into the pot daily, and it is perhaps true, you might not truly read her.
But over time and on the day of snow white her heart melted sound and it became clear, she is an inspired flesh and blood writer. And if you watch her lips carefully, you will hear her say.
I wrote the not because I am haunted.
Perhaps that makes a writer, after all.