The view from where I'm sitting is quite normal and familiar, just my bedroom. I finished a glass of wine- with the goodwill sticker still on the end of it. The window's closed because it is still too cool out. Four books stacked. I miss my books being up here- they've been stuck in storage because there's no room their mass. My 'bean snake' has lost its microwave heat, but I don't feel like getting up to re-warm it. It is soon to be 1 AM and I haven't written a thing.
I've been thinking about writing a lot more lately. I've stopped journaling somewhere along the way, and feel kinda guilty for it. It used to be an outlet and fun. Now writing a sentence is like pulling teeth. I'm starting to envy clacking keyboards, because those keyboard owners know what they want to say and have the words tripping off their fingers. And I have clacking keyboard envy.
Mine goes something like this: click clack cl---ick [pause] clacka clack clic--k. [pause] [PAUSE]
I do want to be a writer. Or a Writer. Seriously or not, I've always loved the world of books and would love to add my 347 pages to the endless shelf.
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1 comment:
Ha, see! I wasn't imagining things. You said it at the end of this entry - "I do want to be a writer." Plus I remember you telling me that was what you wanted to do, even before you wrote that.
But yeah, things change and you said you've changed your mind.
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