writing
Once upon a time, I was a fairly decent writer. I could string words together in a way that made people want to continue reading or listening, a way that won awards. Then life stepped in. I had kids and not time. There was no more angst in my life, no more torturous feelings, so there wasn't as much inspiration. I've never been one to write about happiness and sunshine, but about real life; death, heartbreak, etc.
Now that I have inspiration again, I don't have the mental capacity. Once upon a time, I was a walking thesaurus, a walking dictionary. Now, I can't put an entire sentence together with more than rudimentary language. Hell, I don't even want to read what I wrote these days.
I'm going to perservere, though. I entered a writing contest in September, but didn't place. There's another one right now that I'm considering entering, but I need to try my hand out before I even make a firm decision about it. So don't be surprised if this becomes my sounding board for writing over the next little bit.
Now that I have inspiration again, I don't have the mental capacity. Once upon a time, I was a walking thesaurus, a walking dictionary. Now, I can't put an entire sentence together with more than rudimentary language. Hell, I don't even want to read what I wrote these days.
I'm going to perservere, though. I entered a writing contest in September, but didn't place. There's another one right now that I'm considering entering, but I need to try my hand out before I even make a firm decision about it. So don't be surprised if this becomes my sounding board for writing over the next little bit.
frustrated