I sat on my couch that was more duct tape than leather at this point. I was playing Halloween music loudly in my empty apartment. I rigged together my laptop and my second favorite mechanical keyboard on a lap desk I had impulsively bought from Barnes and Noble years ago. I felt good, I felt semi-awake, and I was going to write. About 30 minutes into writing, I realized that I had started many thoughts but finished none of them. The desire in me to write is rooted in my love of reading. Occasionally, I will read a book off Amazon and think to myself, “I could definitely write better than that.”
To this point in my life, I never actually wrote a complete story. I even enrolled in a creative writing course through some scam of a website, definitely not affiliated with any respectable school. I ghosted that program the second I realized the teacher and I did not agree on what was quality writing. I would never say that I am an expert in anything to be honest, but I know that I enjoy writing in a certain way, and no one could persuade me otherwise.
At some point, I believed in between college and grad school, I had convinced myself that I should write a memoir. What I forgot at the time was that my life was eventless and I was not humorous enough to write anything that someone would read, let alone give me money. So, now I am doing something similar to a memoir but more scatterbrained. I’m writing a blog. Again, there was almost no planning or structure to what I was embarking on but who cared, it was free and I didn’t have to use my own name.
Well, here we are. I am two months or so into this blog and yet I have no idea what I am doing still.
Lavender Skies 