That's All She Wrote

I'm not a great writer, but I love to write regardless. And there are moments when I am overtaken, burdened by the need of self-expression so that my soul aches to have a say. Often I read back over what I once thought was amazing, and I laugh at the crap before me. Most of the good stuff comes in lapses of mediocrity where a glint of brilliance shines through. It's meager, buried beneath the rubble of a churning mind, but it's still mine.

I'll never be a great poet. I don't have a poet's tortured soul. Maybe I'll get there, but I'm not really praying for calamity, a broken heart or relentless grief just to fuel my creative melancholy.

I'll probably never be the novelist I once aspired to be either. I'm not short on imagination really. I'm constantly day dreaming about the what-ifs, but I feel that the magic dies when I attempt to capture the dreams on paper. It seems so much more vivid in my head that I'm disappointed with the results.

But no matter, write I must. I write because I want to even if it is just for an audience of one. More and more, I'm writing what I know or rather what I'm learning and discovering on my journey. It might not be of interest to anyone else really, but that is not why I write. I write because I have the need to capture the moment like a painter with a canvas or like a photographer with a snapshot. I want to collect a memory and bottle it, and so I preserve it in black and white, and I can revisit again and again, like catching up with an old friend...