Death of the Writer by Eva Marie Cagley

Updated: Apr 4

Guest writer for "mynzdreamblog"

I wrote a poem about The Death of a Writer and it gave me this crazy idea to write an article on it. Now I’m not speaking in the literal sense of death! No, I’m talking about a writer that can no longer write. For whatever that reason may be. It could be a physical disability, or you feel your muse has left you forever. Perhaps all the trees have burnt down from wildfires and we no longer have paper. Or the whole internet system fails, and our screens all go black. Or there are no more colors on the color wheel to produce the colors of ink. What would we do without pen and paper? What if we lost our power to think for ourselves? Would others then tell our story?

Back in the day, communication was storytelling and carved messages in dirt and on stone walls. We seem to have always found a way to communicate through the ages. And technology has just made it easier. We have gotten spoiled by all the luxuries we have today. At one time, the typewriter was the must-have for any writer! Who knows what the year 2025 will look like? Will the ozone layer influence any of this? Who really knows as we cannot foresee the future, we can, however, look backward at our history and how far we have come?

Whatever may bring about the inner death of a writer, it is for me truly tragic. When I write, I feel alive and refreshed? Motivated into writing about life and life events. Like the time I ran away at sixteen. And there were snakes in the backyard where I stayed. But that’s another story now, isn’t it? I remember always having a hunger for the written word.

As a child growing up, I struggled with English and in Junior High school I took special classes to help me read and keep what I read. Thank Goodness they caught it early in my life. My penmanship to this day still suffers. That’s why I am so pleased to own a computer and know the basics about using it. Because I took typing in school and did so poorly that I dropped out of the class in tenth grade.

Even to this day, I finger-peck the keys to write these words. But the point is, I write! I don’t give up and I don’t give in! It is a part of whom I am, what I am, a diary of my life. A record to keep for all times. That’s why I’m writing my own memoir. To preserve my life somehow through the ages, even when I am long gone from this earth.

I suppose it’s like that for many of us writers. Looking to leave a legacy of sorts. Our mark upon this world. We are such creative beings with free will. And we each write about whatever our passion is. Mine is poetry and articles on writing and my philosophy. I like to consider it as my deep-thinking frame of mind. When I go inside myself and explore the reasons, I think and feel the way I do about things.

But all I know is that I must write. I don’t feel right when I haven’t for a few days, so I try to write daily for an hour or more. For others, I’m sure you all have your own time frame set up. It motivates me to take action and gets things done. Seeing them to completion! Which includes submitting my work.

So, what does a writer do when they feel the death of the free-flowing ink? Do we give up and throw the towel in or do we do like the cavemen? Start at the basics and spin a story, even if it’s a fairy tale story. Perhaps we write children’s stories. We can always make something up and tell it to a child as a story. Our ancestors passed these life stories down from generation to generation!

I think now that I’ve had time to process this thought. I realize that if one is a true writer that has that passion and inward drives, we will continue to write no matter the obstacles. We’ve been overcoming them for centuries.

I just can’t imagine what life would be like not to write. Once I get started writing, I find there is no end. It is like a circle forever flowing with no beginning and no end! It just is! A true writer will write until they leave this earth, I believe.

The following is a poem I wrote about The Death of a Writer…

Death of A Writer

Where do we go

At the end of the road

No more paper left

No more tree groves

When the ink well runs dry

As a crooked riverbed

Time like an eraser

Leaves you for dead…

The decay setting in

Abandoning your spirit

Naked of words

Into a coma we go.

No muse left to play

No rhymes to say

Emotionless black ink.

Dripping blood-red clouds

Striking white lightning.

On your muse of imagery

Like hitting a tree!

Burning crimson embers

Left barren unaware

Screaming words

Showering upon the ground

Of despair…

Where poems and stories are born

Carving letters, In the soil.

Cavemen with a stick

Learning over again!

But there is no recourse for

The death of a writer!

© Eva Marie Cagley

The moral of this story is Don’t Give Up! Not on writing or submitting, even if you have a learning disability as I had. We can overcome the obstacles life throws our way!

Would you like to write for "The New Zealand Dream?" I am looking for a weekly and monthly guest writer. Please contact

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