There’s so much material inside me it’s almost frustratingly awkward the amount I am unable to extract from my spongy, pink brain matter. I have had this desire to write all day, but now it has become an obsession and although the tiny chemistry of my eyes are being weighted down by exhaustion, I must write until this last beer for the night is finished.
My mind wanders. My mind wanders in all eight directions about the path that life can take and yet, I can’t ever seem to choose one. Geographically of course I have picked the southwest – the mecca of what is to be creatively inspiring to pursue any dream I deem worthy of my time and energy. I look into my future and I see success, happiness and wealth; but where and how I actually attain these things? I don’t know.
I want to write. I want to write. I want to write. I want to write.
I need to get back to my exercises – 10 min. free-writing everyday without stopping… and start doing more prompts, too; create characters, build lives, erect worlds, inspire movement of thought. As I have grown older and been able to take a look at other people’s idea of writing (i.e. – their own), I realize, I’m actually pretty decent. I might have a gift that with a little practice, I could turn out being pretty good, instead of just pretty decent… a gift that I think other people might yearn to have, just as some have a knack for drawing – a gift I so enviously covet with admirational jealousy. We all have our strengths…
I know I’m in my late twenties and I’m a little late to the game, but I now believe to be true that I am, by inherent, absolute, and clearly defined characteristics, a natural born writer.
Read more fiction.