What makes a writer, what makes a circle of writers? 
Is it the commonly shared experience between them – seeing the world’s actions as themselves acts in a piece of work that we could imagine orchestrating? 

Do we as writers always have the shared quality of looking across some time and space and pulling meaning and magic from its depths? 
Do we as writers all have that experience of waking up at night in reflection for what is happening here inside of us, there outside of us, or somewhere between us?

Then slowly feeling the consortium, word by word, being drawn out of us like a march of foot soldiers parading in the streets. 
Syllable by syllable, we begin to see the reflection of those happenings inside being tied to words strung together in articulations of days or nights sometime long ago or in a dream of what could be.

Rounding themselves into verses, paragraphs, or simple lines, they read themselves into the universe.
Rhythm, stamina, flowing like a song in the opera theater.

Captivating every attention until you know it, everyone knows it.
You are, he is, she is, they are, we are – writers.

Together doing something each one of us loves.
Together creating a circle of words, describing what it is to hold meaning.