I need to write more. I sat up in bed last night and announced that if I didn’t write a book I would never feel like I did anything with my life.
So he told me to write.
And I scoffed.
I wrote a chunk of a novel, as I’ve said many times, in college. There is nothing to do now but go back over it word by word, semicolon by semicolon, and stare at the massive text the stoned 19-year old figure of my past wrote out in the dark. I can’t continue it. I can’t seem to shake that it’s there. So it sits on my desktop, a constant reminder of a half-dead accomplishment. It is undead. It is a zombie.
So do I write on the blog? After a year or whatever of writing on this mechanism, it’s become useless. My writing has stopped, in a way. It’s just recycling stories and words and phrases. It’s not new. It’s not even creative.
I was a creative writing major. They had it back then, back before my school went bankrupt. Or perhaps that’s wishless thinking.
Back, back, back in the beginning I wrote fiction. After that poetry. It’s on this blog. I used it for a dumping ground of bad literary ambitions.
So I can dump the ambitions back on here, or let them rot on my desktop. I haven’t decided.