When asked to come up with a metaphor about writing, the first thing that regrettably came to mind was that writing was like shooting a dying horse. It (or the writer) struggles for hours or days or weeks on end, and finally, someone, whether a sympathetic farmer or an impatient publisher, puts it out of its misery. However, after the pessimist in me went to go steal candy from little kids or something, the fantasy nerd in me resurfaced, and I realized that's not how or why I write and that it might be more accurate to describe writing as forging a new sword.
The materials and resources are there from the start; both blacksmiths and writers have what they need to create their personal masterpieces already in their hands (or head). It's the master craftsman's job to reform the raw materials into something elegant. Both practices when done correctly are a labor of many patient hours, and the creation goes through many changes along the way. Eventually, it is finished, and the master craftsman wields his/her new creation and shows it to the world. Depending on how much care went into the creation, one of two things can happen: either the well-tempered weapon (whether a sword or the more potent weapon of words) withstands the burdens placed on it, or the poorly-tempered weapon shatters under the strain.
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