You whine a lot.
Seriously, your last blog entry made me wrinkle my nose and shake my head. I'm a little embarrassed for you.
Maybe you should spend less time whining about not writing and more time actually doing it.
Get over yourself,
Me
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Dear Blog,
I'm sorry I no longer write entries for you. The truth is, I don't write much at all. Sure, I get paid to come up with two-word headlines and an occasional cluster of sentences that eventually morph to client-mandated bullets, but other than that, I don't do it. And it makes me very sad.
I've written longer than I could spell. It's always been my passion. Boxes of journals are collecting dust in my parents' attic. Each one is stacked cover-to-cover with words. Good words too. Words better than good. Sentences longer than five words.
I still keep a couple of spirals stuffed inside my bedside table. Another rests in my backpack. Their first couple of pages are scrawled with random thoughts, promises to exercise more, to-do lists and curse word-infested rants. The rest of the pages are pathetically blank.
I really have no one to blame but myself. If I wanted to, I could pick up this laptop every night and peck something out. Anything. Good or bad. My writer friend does it. Her stuff is always good though.
I will try to write more. Not every night, but more than I do now. Perhaps I can force myself into a state of inspiration. Maybe I can make myself be moved by miniscule moments. See? A little alliteration to kick things off! I used a B verb, but eh, I gotta start somewhere.
Or maybe this will be just another first page in a mostly-empty digital spiral. Hmmm... I suppose I should be a bit more positive and a tad less melancholic. Guess it's just the writer in me.
Until next time,
Me
I've written longer than I could spell. It's always been my passion. Boxes of journals are collecting dust in my parents' attic. Each one is stacked cover-to-cover with words. Good words too. Words better than good. Sentences longer than five words.
I still keep a couple of spirals stuffed inside my bedside table. Another rests in my backpack. Their first couple of pages are scrawled with random thoughts, promises to exercise more, to-do lists and curse word-infested rants. The rest of the pages are pathetically blank.
I really have no one to blame but myself. If I wanted to, I could pick up this laptop every night and peck something out. Anything. Good or bad. My writer friend does it. Her stuff is always good though.
I will try to write more. Not every night, but more than I do now. Perhaps I can force myself into a state of inspiration. Maybe I can make myself be moved by miniscule moments. See? A little alliteration to kick things off! I used a B verb, but eh, I gotta start somewhere.
Or maybe this will be just another first page in a mostly-empty digital spiral. Hmmm... I suppose I should be a bit more positive and a tad less melancholic. Guess it's just the writer in me.
Until next time,
Me
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
