I started a writer's group this past Autumn for writer's in my northern Indiana area. There are five of us who are committed to this cause and meet twice a month to share our thoughts, writings, postings, etc.
We bring quotes and books and even writing contests to the group. Not everyone is wanting to be published, and we all have our own goals.
The wine was low, the night late when I simply said, "Writers can save the world."
There was silence and then Stephen began to laugh. "No one can save the world," he said, "not even writers."
I started thinking about his comment. Are my glasses so rose colored that I think that writers, poets, artists, dreamers of dreams can save the world?
I have always thought that artists are more in tune to sunsets and foggy mornings. Or is it just me and the way I look at life?
Is the way I look at life the reason I write...or do I write because I look at life the way I do?
A few years ago I took my own hobo train trip across country. What I attempted to find out was whether hobos became writers or did writers become hobos? The question was left unanswered.
For now, I can dream that my blog, my columns, my way of thinking will somehow save the world...or maybe it will just save me?