To a writer, words are the sense of being. The pen is the sword of our craft, the thing that makes, breaks, torments and teases us. It's our friend, our enemy, our encouragement and - often enough - the cause of our depression. To a writer, writing isn't just something one "does." A writer, when asked what they "do", does not usually reply, "I write." A writer, when asked what they "do", will often say, "I'm a writer." It is an honourable though painstaking title. Writing is what makes us unique and complete, and it's the beginning of the decline in our sanity. I suppose, however, to take on the task of being born a writer (whether or not we know it then), one needs to be a bit insane to start with - or at least on the fringe of it. I am, of course, no exception to this rule. The eccentricities and strange habits that come with being a writer are neither glamorous nor engrossing, at least not to anyone but ourselves. Some of us need to have the lights dimmed while the TV is blaring when we get in those inspired moods, where we don't pay attention to anything else other than the written task at hand. Some of us need the music turned up quite loudly with nothing but a candle burning on the shelf. Some of us prefer to write outside, others indoors. Some of us use typewriters, some of us use computers, and a small portion of us still enjoys writing by hand. Some of us need to wear earmuffs and chew on orange-flavoured gummy Lifesavers while having a small Asian woman walk on our shoulders. Albeit I've never met anyone who does this, something tells me, somewhere, there's a writer - and no one else but a writer - who does. The writer is disciplined, if only regarding our personal endeavors. When we feel the need to write, we often say goodbye to the outside world, sit down with a pen and paper or any other writing device we can find, and immerse ourselves into our work. We are among the most dedicated people one can meet. We take what we do seriously, and apply an unthinkable amount of time and effort into our craft. When we feel a scene, story, or whatever we happen to be delving into doesn't fit or has a flaw, we do not let it pass inspection. We read, reread, edit, rewrite, rethink, and overcomplicate our work. Yet the results are sometimes fruitful, which makes the entire thing worthwhile. It takes a special mate to live with a writer, as there is a large portion of us that require solitude in order to create. Some suitors and companions might find this intimidating or annoying at times, but those that plan on spending a good amount of time with a writer - such as in a marriage or any other serious relationship - will come to learn our strange and often quirky ways. To be a parent of a writer is especially precarious. We, as writer children and teenagers, often forget about the menial household tasks and replace them in our minds with the "greater good", if you will. Why do the laundry when you can spark another's imagination with one of your stories? Why bother to wash the dishes when there is a creative world to explore? Needless to say, guilt settles in, and it is within these moments that we question our supposed reason of being. Being a writer in general is precarious. There are so many times in our lives that we, as writers, question what we do. Perhaps if we had gone to law school, life wouldn't be so fanciful and more profitable. Perhaps if we had done as millions of others do and followed the herd, things would be easier. Yet the road of a writer is almost never easy. We see things differently from other people. Each person we know is a story, a character, an adventure. Each place we visit is just an opportunity to write, and enlighten others to the wonder of what we see, and how we see it. We are visionaries. We are artists and creators. We are storytellers, passing on things that our children will tell their children, who will tell their children. We are writers. I am a writer.