Writing about writing.
But here goes anyway.
I’ve written two novels. Published neither. Not sure if I really think they’re publishable, anyway–they turned out to be more like therapy, or a square on a checklist.
I’ve been writing poetry for years and years. Good, bad, whatever. This hobby has morphed into Poetry Friday, song lyrics, and little compilations of poetry as gifts, all tied up in yarn.
I blog. This is present tense. On and off, interesting and stupid, inspirational and self-destructive. It seems like a few people read it, a few people like it. It helps me.
I write essays for school. I procrastinate as long as possible and then whip out a 92% grade in the last three hours before it’s due. My mom says it’s a gift, my “sight-reading.” She plays piano, can sight-read most any piece and make it sound beautiful.
My gift is BS.
I tweet but my followers are few. I make myself laugh more than is okay.
I come up with story ideas, write them down, forget them. I’ve learned that when a story is right, it works. I rarely mourn the ones I give life to and then abandon. Stories are not children so much as trees. I squirrel around leaving little acorn story plots–if they grow on their own, I’ll return to them and reap the benefits, if my mind survives the winter frost.
My friend Jamie says, “Care about small things.”