I don’t even write that much anymore. Here I was, the champion of all things writing and I can’t sit down and do it myself. I’m a mess of embarrassment. Here’s the thing. My pet project of the year has lost almost all interest too me. I look at it now and see nothing that I want to work on at this moment. It was supposed to be something I could stick with for a while and I got bored. It could be good with some work, but there’s so much of it that’s just so worthless that I’m not sure I feel like salvaging it. I should just move onto the next thing.
But what is the next thing? I don’t have all that much dramatic in my life to write about right now. I don’t have a job I hate. I don’t have a girlfriend who I can’t seem to make it work with. Bills are annoying, but doable (I hope).
My great shame as a writer is that I haven’t really had that hard of a life. I had two parents who loved me and provided for me.
And yes, I know, that’s a ripoff of Happythankyoumoreplease. It’s not a direct quote, but that’s where the idea’s from.
It’s just true. That’s my biggest hurdle as a writer. I can’t get past the fact that if my life was harder, I’d have more to write about.
And at the same time, I’d probably want to do a lot less writing and a lot more whining about my life.
So maybe I’ll be happy that things are calm enough for now. And I’ll try to write anyway.