I have been wrestling around for quite some time with things to write, not liking anything I do write. I was kind of excited about an article that sparked a light in me for a several-part story which I deleted as soon as I posted due to it being the start of what brought me to want to be a writer in the first place my life, and if I am ever a good enough writer to write the many things about growing up in very odd and abusive, mentally disturbed and spiritual experiences as well as well with some poetry in a book one day. I figure next year maybe, I will start working on a book, if possible, and get that out of my system, and finally move on. I see a book as the final step to begin a new journey whether you are the only one that buys your own book and don’t make a penny is not the point of what I believe to be the reason for writing, plus you can remain real and write freely without others taring a person to pieces for personal gain. I started writing a couple of years ago, which I found was very uplifting in my world as well as sending me into a spiral of mental breakdowns and recurring pain. Yet I found it could put the final nail in a coffin and let free true scars that seem through life to beat one down over and over. Writing, I don’t believe, is something that can be forced upon people, pressure to people writing just to write without heart. I always felt that just writing about making money and pushing people to write about anything would cause burnout and eventually false stories about making it look as if writing many stories a day, you are enriched, within two years no matter what your final niche is, even if your niche is to
bitch. These are only my thoughts and mine alone, and I do not claim to be right, write. There are just things that cause people to be in their own ways for whatever reason. I’m sure it’s not only myself that witnesses this in everyday life. It seems a disease to jump on the bandwagon not to help the ones around us but to take on a pack mentality like wild animals and fill our bellies like Arnold from Green Acres. I would say that if they write and make it big, they are very special with a connected gift from the heavens and deserve comfort. I don’t think it rains down golden tickets of those types of things for anyone to grasp. Some writers, I would say probably were never in the land of the poor or abused or had great hardships in different levels than some and possibly just had the luck at birth and education to land them in the grove, if you will, and there is nothing wrong with that. A ticket at the starting line? Right from birth, I would have taken it gladly. The only problem is I would have probably given the ticket away to a crying baby next to me cause I felt sorry for him because his well-dressed parents had really miserable looks on their faces. Well after a long sleep last night and waking in an adventurous sort of mood with as much as a person can think up and plan for a new day and maybe some new words? Cook up in the city of lights without bumping into the evil that lurks? I’m going to ride some subways, do a little shopping, and possibly a little on the edge outskirts hiking till my legs won’t take me beyond where I can still get a bus back home. Peace to all xo
