in the village, the rest of his life was devoted to working for the entertainment of others. Must the
ultimate achievement of a writer culminate in abject loneliness and isolation from the rest of the
world? The writer is neither god, nor fully man, but a miserable creature caught somewhere
between, shackled within his solitude.”
They walked silently together for a time, enjoying each other’s company as Mona pondered the
meaning of her grandfather’s words. It was nearly noon by the time they returned to the lush
green yard surrounding the farmhouse. The sky was thick with billowing grey clouds which
threatened rain. In the valley, near the babbling stream that ran through its floor, a mare
whinnied, so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble underfoot.
“Your cousin, smiling boy, should arrive today from his village,” said Grandpa. “I hope his
journey is safe on this cruel rainy day.” He looked at Mona’s flushed cheeks and smiled. “But
then, our smiling boy is a poet who loves romantic summer rains.”
“He’s never written a poem, Grandpa,” she replied
“Ahh…but there are two types of poets and writers. There are those like me and like you, who
suffer for our writing and strongly desire to touch the hearts of our readers. But then there are
also the poets and writers who write only for themselves. They are pure and strong, writing for
the sheer joy of it, never allowing themselves to be poisoned by editors and readers. My smiling
boy is the second type, a wonderful poet by nature. Since his childhood, he has written poems
and songs for himself. He wanted to win your heart when you were younger, but respected your
dreams. His heart broke for you when you married another and divorced within a year.”
Mona’s failed marriage was a sore topic. “I know, Grandpa, it wasn’t a wise choice. I never
thought that the brilliant writer whom I married would choose his art and his audience over me,”
she shook her head sadly, remembering.
“My dear Mona, you are still young and have much to learn. His writings heightened your joy
for a while and he so fascinated you that you imagined there was a god behind those writings.
But he was only a man, and a flawed soul at that.”
“I didn’t understand the complexity of writers,” she admitted. “Some are such miserable
creatures, writing and then waiting for the approval of editors and readers. They live in misery
their whole lives, feeling like gods if they become famous, finding their worth in the adulation of
others. What is the end result...? Loneliness and death.”
Grandpa smiled. “But, my dear child, you have survived, and a life full of beauty, love and
promise awaits you. The stories you write spread good cheer to those who are fortunate enough
to read them. Move on from the past, there’s nothing to pity here! Do you remember those
cloudy summers from childhood, when you used to sing in the rain?”
Mona nodded. Summers lasted forever back then. “I used to chase lightening bugs through the
woods. I’d catch them and put them inside a jar. I dreamed of the stars with the jar by my bed,
but each morning my pretty lightening bugs were dead.”
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