The Fisherman, The Writer

He reached into his bait box and pulled out a live worm. Placing it still-writhing onto his hook, he spoke. “I guess I’m a different type of fisherman. The way I see it, all the stories are already up there, and it’s my job to find them.”

He cast the line off the pier and into the ocean. I leaned over the salt-soaked wooden railings to watch it fly, but lost it almost immediately in the heavy, gray fog.

“And once I find one, it isn’t over. I have to fight with the story. I have to develop it and reason with it until it becomes tangible. Only then can I bring it from my mind to paper.”

We were silent for a while as the line swayed back and forth into gray nothingness. I could feel the moist air sit upon me and the waves crash and foam just beneath us. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back to take it all in.

“Just remember that fishing and catching are two completely different things”, he said.

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