I’m back in the blogging universe to wail about creative writing, my longest-lived dream in this life. Many would say my ruined life. I don’t know anyone who could look at my life after age 15 and find a whole lot to hope for. Why not write for myself? It turns out to be incredibly difficult.
There is no choice to write for money, it just isn’t an option. I dropped out of college and I don’t really know anything that a trained psychic couldn’t inform her parrot to greet her clients with. Yes. I am an abject failure by any standard metric of living in this world.
Anyway, Twitter just doesn’t pass muster for the lonely. So I’m back to blogging. I wrote a short (as in microscopic) novel, about three years ago. Notice I’m not linking to it. Please notice carefully.
Writing for yourself is lonely, so I need your help. Please read this and comment. You can be helpful or hurtful. I may deserve it.
I’m sorry that I’m not paying attention to rules of paragraph and grammar etiquette herein, I’m just hopeful to pick up a listener who cares. You will notice that quite most of my statements bend back and break upon themselves like ugly waves of waterlogged lumber. I’ve spent far too much time alone to get along with raconteurs and rulers of the world.
I entertain all manner of stupid and foolish notions, mainly my own, because I’m exceedingly vain. I can only say that I apologize. I am terrified. I will try to appreciate any consolation. Thank you.