The writer

Red hair. Tied in a curly braid.
Auburn eyes. Focusing on the page.
Small hands. Gripping the pen.
The young woman scribbles her sentences over the blue lines of the notebook. She has butterflies in her stomach over the life of the characters on the page. She just met them a few weeks ago, but already she loves them dearly.
The writer's brain goes a thousand miles a minute. Her plot unfolds and the words on the lines say wonderful things. She is happy with the way the paragraphs are turning out. She is happy in general. She always has nice things to say and good things on her mind. She is an inspiration.
And those eyes. They are the color of her hair, but they aren't red. Modestly, she calls them brown, but no. Those shining eyes are golden with sunshine and burning with copper. Rays of fire beam through the metallic rims. And the pupils, black as night, are the center of the universe.
Her joy and wisdom radiate from her eyes. They aren't windows; they are open gates of knowledge wrapped up in emotions which she says doesn't exist.
She keeps a list of things she is thankful for. She writes those gifts down, recording every good thing she receives from God.
She writes some stories.
She writes some letters.
She writes some journals.
She writes her blog.
She writes and writes and writes for God.