I am a painter, and my works may leave you breathless, perhaps with the beauty of a tranquil scene, the realism of a tiny window of life, or the delicate beauty of a portrait. I want you to marvel at my painting, or be intrigued, filled with wonder, or weep with gentle tears, moved beyond words. I want my paintings to shock you when I portray the harsh reality of modern times. I sometimes use horrid strong strokes, with slashes and gashes of vivid, garish colours.

I’m also a potter, my hands moulding the clay with tenderness – and strength – creating pieces of colour and beauty, each one unique, each fit for a purpose. Sometimes the purpose is utilitarian, other times the purpose is simply to give delight and pleasure. However, to achieve this, they have all been through the fire of hell. Made beautiful with glaze, yes, but fired in the kiln – for they must last beyond a lifetime.

I am a sculptor at times, crafting in wood, marble and stone, each three-dimensional piece being born from the depths of my heart and mind. No room for error, as people circle around each piece, observing, thinking, commenting, and appreciating.

I am a musician too; I can bring thousands of people to perfect silence in anticipation of my first notes. I aim to appeal to people’s emotions, or reflect them, with tears of joy, or sadness. When I choose, I can make them sing and dance.

Unfortunately ...

No, I can’t. I have no musical instrument. I have only a voice, a quiet voice.

Nor can I sculpt. I have no wood, marble, or stone. No sculpting tools.

I am sorry. I am no potter. I have no clay, no potter’s wheel, no kiln.

And I cannot paint. I have no paints, no canvas, no brushes, no easel.

All I have are my thoughts and my dreams. My only creations are from words. I use them to create beautiful images, or shocking ones, in the eyes of readers. I want them to see as I see.

I mould and shape words into ideas and then craft them into utilitarian, helpful pieces, or works designed simply to give pleasure and delight, perhaps even a sense of joy. I want recipients to have tactile pleasure, caressing the words and appreciating the fire of experiences that has brought them into being. I want readers to feel as I feel.

My words may be sculpted into life-like reflections of reality, or they make bold statements about culture and society. How has life chiselled me, and planed my inner being so that my words are shaped with tiny strokes to smoothness of expression? I want viewers to see that I am driven to express myself. Will they be moved as  I am?

Will my readers experience a hush of anticipation as they prepare to read? Will there be an expectant eagerness for the music and beautiful harmony of words? Will what I write enable the deaf to hear, in their imagination, the message I offer, the music which will bring spontaneous gasps? Do they hear what I hear?

Words are my paint, my clay, my wood, marble and stone, my instrument and my voice.

I just have thoughts, like seeds which are nurtured in the womb of my mind until they form and develop into words, and at the right time are birthed into living words, then crafted into my writing  for people to see, touch, feel, be moved, and hear.

Thoughts and words are all I have to offer and share, for I am a writer.