Writers are beautiful.

Writers are beautiful.

Writers have folded legs and folded hands sitting loosely on their laps. Their arms are not folded- lest to wrap in a welcomed embrace of Toni or another consensual community-seeker.

Writers upturn eyes and downturn chins. They listen intently while staring into the distance or at the speaker’s profile. They do not interrupt nor dismiss. They wonder and think and respond.

Writers feel vulnerable, stoic, and ambivalent- about their own writing, about others’ perceptions of their writing, about speaking their writing aloud. Yet, they create space for writers’ voices- often their own- to say the words typed and written in parsed-out time.

Writers appreciate the sighs and silences, the rustle of stretching fingers, and the momentary glances.

Writers are moved by other writers.

They find them beautiful- with their crossed legs and folded hands, thoughtful words and vulnerable hearts that hug the room through voice and pen.

Writers are beautiful.

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