Manifesto for the Brave Writers

Dear Writers,

            Battle on.

            The fight is not lost, for there are still words to murder with, still adjectives to regroup, still metaphors that may turn the tide.

            Your enemies are just passing fancies, impulses that shoot at you briefly but inevitably fall short. You repel them with a shield of schedules and missed parties. The sacrifices of your outtakes will never pass from memory; they shall live on forever in file #52 of your ‘random’ folder.

            The incessantly long nights spent in the in-between of worlds will lead you to glorious victory. The sun, when it returns like an innocent trickster from its hiding place, will shine out clearer than ever. The free peoples of the world shall rejoice and they shall escape their mellow lives only to be plunged into a tyranny so perilous that no one is safe, or a waking nightmare of sadistic proportions, or perhaps into a world of talking rabbits and magic broomsticks.

            But because you offer a reprieve, a distraction, or childlike amusement, they will happily take your hand, and follow you on your path to transcension.

            So battle on, brave writers, for at journey’s end, the golden fleece shall be draped around your shoulders by an irreverent cyclops. The queen herself shall present you with a medal of recognition. Spring-heeled Jack will join you for a shot of whiskey after you lend him a cigar.

            There is nothing that cannot happen, that does not exist, there on the other side: the unknown, deceptive paths that you traverse, unguided and wholly alone.

            But when the journey is over, the dragon slain, the great evil vanquished, and you stand victorious over a field of savagery, you may reward yourself with a well-earned comfort: a sleep thrice as long and restful than the goddess Persephone’s, from which you will wake, make yourself a steaming pot of tea, and go off to battle yet again.

            So strap on your cuirass and your ropers and your poison dagger, pull on your satin gloves, draw your crescent falchion…

Prepare to face every conceivable enemy you can conjure, the greatest of which are forces so powerful they raze even the most impenetrable fortress to the ground… and you may find, perhaps, after countless cronies, thugs, thieves, mercenaries, vampires, corrupt leaders and time lords, that the greatest threat lies within your own mind…

            Battle on, valiant writers… you fight for a worthy cause.

            Yours truly,

            An irredeemable insomniac.

© Patrick Boey 2023. All rights reserved.

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