Being a writer myself I can state clearly the mind of a writer. A writer makes its mind and soul to unite so that together they can bring words, the word dances to the music of heart of writers, the pen he holds becomes the golden light of hope an inspiration. The light rises from its spirit, his dreams and thoughts. They take shape of words the golden words that inspires the world from their dismay and depression. The one who write can’t sleep, rest in the fear that as there is so much in their head it might get lost or washed off while dreaming. All they need is a pen and a paper to fuel their emotions so that the thoughts wondering in their mind gets a place to rest. Today writing has become an important professional as most of the companies are too busy to write about themselves so they outsource writers for their content development. When I entered the field of content writing, in the beginning I felt I have opted a wrong choice but later when it took a start I started enjoying my work. It gave me the freedom from the manual job. I could express the thoughts and the feeling that wandered in my mind. It not only allowed me to express my knowledge and creativity but also helped me in learning new facts and figures, I came to know about many such topics that were not in knowledge and they were highly interesting. Content writing can be said to be a collaborative, iterative process that overlaps with creativity, technical and knowledge. Researching content, developing it then writing a new content or rewriting/editing the existing content that is appropriate for the interactive media and adds values to its reader is the basic work of a content writer. The content writers ensure that the content developed by them meets best practice web development and usability standards. With the passing of the day content writing is becoming important and is inspiring people through their writings.
Ira comes for tea and slowly reveals a life shaped by emotional surveillance. Loved, watched, and quietly evaluated by her parents, she lives under constant explanation. Through food, posture, and confession, she names the exhaustion of being known too well and finds nourishment not just in eating, but in finally being heard. Ira arrived five minutes early and apologized for it. The way people do when they are used to taking responsibility for time itself. She said it lightly, as if time itself had offended her. She wore a white A-line shirtdress, clean and careful, the kind that looks chosen for comfort but ends up signaling restraint. When she sat down, she folded herself into the chair unconsciously. One leg rested on the floor, the other tucked underneath her, knees visible. It was not a pose meant to be seen. It slipped out before her body remembered how to protect itself. I noticed the brief softness of it, the quiet vulnerability, before she settled and forgot. I was still...
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