words. words, words, words. it's all we got.
i started this blog because i wanted to remain mindful of my writing. i wanted something that could quantify the words in my thoughts. these pages are a fragment of the words i am thinking and yet i feel i've compiled nothing.
in a few weeks, there is a book signing for something i ghosted. i have a reminder on my calendar for the event. i want to smile at the corpse with a nod, acknowledging that he did something my sporadic passion prevents me from doing. he produced something that folks want to read. - sure it came from my pen and skill, but the unfinished piles of incomprehensible words in my collection of garbage indicates that i cannot -
i started this blog to separate the strides i have in my writing measured against the hurdles i face with my mental illness. in a moment of clarity, i separated the two; knowing if i ever read through an old chaotic journal about how stuck i am in my head, i would not be able to organize the words from my pen. i understand without the one, i don't have the other. both my words and my madness are important.
i spoke with a writer pal on the opposite end of the world. literally and figuratively. she writes something i do not. she shared her struggle to squash a new story idea while she works on finishing the one she's writing. her books appear on actual shelves that do not belong to her. apparently finishing one thing before starting another works for her. i do not share that skill set. i have no less than seven projects going at once and three more in queue on the brain. i am disorganized and undisciplined and a jumbled mess. it's what i do.
it does not work for me. i'm not delusional and i will never argue that this is my success; but it is my habit and i will aggressively support my position.
there was a time, when passion was high, that i would introduce myself as a writer [with a numbers gig]. sadly, i've reverted to capitalizing the numbers with a little voice squeaking, 'and i write toooooo.' and every time i hear myself, i hate me a little more.
i hate that i haven't done as much as i want. i hate that my stories do not contain two words on a final page.
but i digress, i was talking story to this fellow writer and it occurred to me that i have far more finished than i have unfinished. what i don't have is a publishing contract, or an agent to sell a script. i don't have a mass appeal for the public. [or more to the point, i don't have the passion to sell my work to others]
the conversation with this complete opposite made me realize that somehow i'm muddling through the writing. the words are finding their way together even if i'm not noticing their movement. it may seem like it's nothing, but it's almost like a shocking revelation seen at the climax of a horror movie blinked out with strobe lighting getting closer and closer until it takes my breath in a grasp and fades to black.
i am a series of short stories that one day someone with find and compile into greatness.
THE END
i started this blog because i wanted to remain mindful of my writing. i wanted something that could quantify the words in my thoughts. these pages are a fragment of the words i am thinking and yet i feel i've compiled nothing.
in a few weeks, there is a book signing for something i ghosted. i have a reminder on my calendar for the event. i want to smile at the corpse with a nod, acknowledging that he did something my sporadic passion prevents me from doing. he produced something that folks want to read. - sure it came from my pen and skill, but the unfinished piles of incomprehensible words in my collection of garbage indicates that i cannot -
i started this blog to separate the strides i have in my writing measured against the hurdles i face with my mental illness. in a moment of clarity, i separated the two; knowing if i ever read through an old chaotic journal about how stuck i am in my head, i would not be able to organize the words from my pen. i understand without the one, i don't have the other. both my words and my madness are important.
i spoke with a writer pal on the opposite end of the world. literally and figuratively. she writes something i do not. she shared her struggle to squash a new story idea while she works on finishing the one she's writing. her books appear on actual shelves that do not belong to her. apparently finishing one thing before starting another works for her. i do not share that skill set. i have no less than seven projects going at once and three more in queue on the brain. i am disorganized and undisciplined and a jumbled mess. it's what i do.
it does not work for me. i'm not delusional and i will never argue that this is my success; but it is my habit and i will aggressively support my position.
there was a time, when passion was high, that i would introduce myself as a writer [with a numbers gig]. sadly, i've reverted to capitalizing the numbers with a little voice squeaking, 'and i write toooooo.' and every time i hear myself, i hate me a little more.
i hate that i haven't done as much as i want. i hate that my stories do not contain two words on a final page.
but i digress, i was talking story to this fellow writer and it occurred to me that i have far more finished than i have unfinished. what i don't have is a publishing contract, or an agent to sell a script. i don't have a mass appeal for the public. [or more to the point, i don't have the passion to sell my work to others]
the conversation with this complete opposite made me realize that somehow i'm muddling through the writing. the words are finding their way together even if i'm not noticing their movement. it may seem like it's nothing, but it's almost like a shocking revelation seen at the climax of a horror movie blinked out with strobe lighting getting closer and closer until it takes my breath in a grasp and fades to black.
i am a series of short stories that one day someone with find and compile into greatness.
THE END
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