It has been a minute since I came on this side of things and decided to have a chat with the world. Mainly due to time, and complete writers block. I used to love writing, I remember being all of 13 writing stories that fit the era of the world I was living in. However, as I grew older my writing slowly became a vehicle of not only my imagination, but also my frustration.
As time faded like pictures, it stopped being about my imagination and purely about my frustration.
Eventually, I found myself despising the very thing I loved. I would open up word and have a ton of great ideas only to have no desire to put them to paper. They would solely be locked up inside of me.
I tried to get back into the swing of things once the importance of blogs surfaced. Tried to monetize it, you know, let that be my motivation to post. I failed at that miserably. Now I am taking it back. Taking it back to be the point of my imagination, instead of my frustrations.
The manuscripts I have written may never get published and I am ok with that. Would it be great for me to pen a epic adventure that brings me money hand over fist? Sure! But I was never in it for that and I let the world try to convert me to that. I would rather millions of years my works be found by some type of historian and they say “This was a real human being. Unwavering, undistracted and a beautiful mind.” Instead of having, them say “and this is another one of our famous writers of this era” but that is all they know about me.
I know it sounds crazy, but I was never one for convention or conformity.