Here I go again. And by go I mean writing about writing.
I feel terribly ashamed every time I commit such a post but sometimes I just don’t care and this is one of those days.
Recently I’ve noticed a few fun things in my complicated yet maddening relationship between blank pages and myself. First, I guess the most fun of the writing comes from losing it and finding it again. I know that I am not a great writer but I think of myself as an entertaining one [when I actually write something – A.] and there are days in which I just cannot find the right words to put down. It’s being that simple and that complicated at the same time. Still, in the time when nothing comes of my hands, there are things that keeps tormenting the back of my head as they demand to be written down and, bam. It happens. It truly is a case of losing and finding. Always the same rusty roundabout.
Second of all, it teaches responsibility. Maybe that is why it takes me so long to take any story and actually finish it in a decent way. That must be where all scraps writing and re writing comes from. I can think about all those stories in every bus that I take or any store that I go to, because I feel responsible for plots that I brought to life.
And last, but not least, whatever happens, there is always writing. One does not need much things or space for it, unless someone prefers to use a desk on the middle of a lake. Though, on the other hand, hey, it is your imagination after all. And it does not really matter if there is someone around or you are left alone with your thoughts. People, things and places comes and goes. So, regardless of what happens on the way, writing is your life companion all the freaking time. Seriously, if you do have a hobby that sticks to you that badly better live with it or make it a craft. [which maybe I should be doing right now instead of writing about it – A.]