I'm upping it again
You don't have to read this.
The curtains next to my computer keep billowing from the soft (unbearable) summer heat outside. I keep telling myself that if I can just find a good opening line, I could convince myself that I am writing the next Nobel prize winner and keep on typing.
It doesn't seem to work anymore.
All my brain ever does is think and all it can ever think about is starting lines and beliefs and random little tidbits that would do well in a story.
I’m always hoping that anything I type or write will lead to another little something which will lead to another BIG something. Typing my library code even makes me hopeful. But alas, once again, it never works.
But, back to my curtains billowing in the wind.
The heat here in the south is unbearable. I grew up in the north, a place where it snows and is a nice constant 76 degrees in the summer. Nice, comfortable, able to wear pants or a skirt.
And once again, I’m bullshitting to fill up the page. People say to write about something I know of. I seem to know a lot. But it never really shows anywhere. So how exactly am I to be sure of what I know?
Lets see what I know about:
Music, vampires, poetry, movies, books, people, hatred, some love, werewolves, fantasies, small chopped up bits of paper skewed across the floor.
I know about sleepless nights and wishing and wanting and not having a father. I know about things never working out no matter how hard I wish them to. I know about broken promises and keeping my own to anyone I promise them to.
I know about writer’s block too much. Along with a story I wish I could get out, but it won’t make it past the first half page because I still cannot decide on anything. Except for the entire ending and such.
I know about the disappointment in a blank page when you thought you had written fifty. And it mainly is blank because your computer hates you with a vengeance.
I know about not wanting to be single anymore. Because I’m tired of it to the max. But it’s okay. Because I’ve been this way for at least a year.
I miss Rping and best friends being told about the girlfriend.
I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT:
The satisfaction of finishing something I love so much.
Writing my favorite story and novel.
Loving more.
Being sexy.
Finding love.
Being in my number one top most wanted career: Singer in a band.
I want a father.
The curtains next to my computer keep billowing from the soft (unbearable) summer heat outside. I keep telling myself that if I can just find a good opening line, I could convince myself that I am writing the next Nobel prize winner and keep on typing.
It doesn't seem to work anymore.
All my brain ever does is think and all it can ever think about is starting lines and beliefs and random little tidbits that would do well in a story.
I’m always hoping that anything I type or write will lead to another little something which will lead to another BIG something. Typing my library code even makes me hopeful. But alas, once again, it never works.
But, back to my curtains billowing in the wind.
The heat here in the south is unbearable. I grew up in the north, a place where it snows and is a nice constant 76 degrees in the summer. Nice, comfortable, able to wear pants or a skirt.
And once again, I’m bullshitting to fill up the page. People say to write about something I know of. I seem to know a lot. But it never really shows anywhere. So how exactly am I to be sure of what I know?
Lets see what I know about:
Music, vampires, poetry, movies, books, people, hatred, some love, werewolves, fantasies, small chopped up bits of paper skewed across the floor.
I know about sleepless nights and wishing and wanting and not having a father. I know about things never working out no matter how hard I wish them to. I know about broken promises and keeping my own to anyone I promise them to.
I know about writer’s block too much. Along with a story I wish I could get out, but it won’t make it past the first half page because I still cannot decide on anything. Except for the entire ending and such.
I know about the disappointment in a blank page when you thought you had written fifty. And it mainly is blank because your computer hates you with a vengeance.
I know about not wanting to be single anymore. Because I’m tired of it to the max. But it’s okay. Because I’ve been this way for at least a year.
I miss Rping and best friends being told about the girlfriend.
I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT:
The satisfaction of finishing something I love so much.
Writing my favorite story and novel.
Loving more.
Being sexy.
Finding love.
Being in my number one top most wanted career: Singer in a band.
I want a father.