Out, damned spot!

My dears,

It would seem that the writers block took a break, or my muse popped in for a quick visit the other day, and ideas just..popped into my head faster than I could write them. And I do have to write them fast, or else..well, the flow just flies away, and the wording doesn't situate right and I have to work very hard to try and remember what came so easily seconds before.

Now, that's not to say that I've written anything particularly good, or spectacular. Sure, I'm going to put it up on my fictionpress account. But only for ideas. Opinions. Ways to make myself better. I haven't gotten any of those lately.

It seems like, anytime I write something, I'm automatically praised for it. Like, I'm just this..robot that pops out poems that sounds nice, but don't leave you with much more. And when I'm not writing, I'm not good for anything. I cook, and clean, and act the good daughter/future housewife (oh god, please no.) but I don't really do anything. Writing is all I have, and I'm no more special at that than I am at anything else. It just happens to be the only thing I'm mildly notable for.

So, I'll crank out a couple things once in a blue moon. people will read them over, coo their compliments (which I am honestly really grateful for, really, I swear. They make me feel wonderful inside. Better than ever.) and leave me wanting..more. Just like my poems. Empty somehow. I want to be better. Someday I want to be, gasp!, published. And I'm probably being egotistical thinking it's possible, but it's my dream. The only dream I have.

It's all I've got.

That, and your lovely compliments.

And that little empty bit of longing left after hearing them.


(I considered leaving you with poetry, but instead, I'll leave you with my fictionpress account. ..Well, I guess it's the same thing.)