Piso Mojado No doubt about that. More sadly though, is that she lacked the self esteem needed to push her past being such a disjunct author. She knew she has a so called 'writer's voice,' but when she thought about previous works crafted, she shuddered, embarrassed at the childish, brash tone.

She was tired. Which was probably a good thing- as it meant she had had busy days filling up her brain, keeping her distracted from the malaise that
threatened to drown her whenever she stopped to think- on the toilet, or after a good book.

She often felt like a character in the novels and short stories that she had
read at an age too young to empathize with depressed, weak-minded, middle-aged adults. Her father had thrust upon his and her ego the idea that she, a
moody pubescent, was so advanced in reading and comprehension, that she could comprehend anything.

She felt her vocabulary was elementary, and would betray her pot-retarded
mind to her readers. Her readers, yes. She often had daydreams of becoming a famous writer, and worried about things that might hamper her much-deserved fame. "Will publishing under a nome de plum affect my future popularity? Will Oprah Winfery add me to her book club if she can't interview me on her show?"

She wanted to write plays with fantastic wit and depth. To see her work performed by others. She wanted to be funny, she wanted to be brilliant, and she wanted her mind to shut up long enough for her to forget that she was neither.

She couldn't write a short story, for she could not imagine being satisfied
with any plot, as she saw her future as blank as a stockyard cow's stare.
nomme this wasn't her book 030816
Spare Change She wasn't a writer. Not in the sense of the word that your thinking. She never published a book, never scripted a play, never even wrote a poem. But she loved her life and she lived it with passion. She was happy and I don't mean in a false perky sense, she wasn't too happy, she was just... good natured about everything. She was outgoing and seemed so unafraid. I'm trying to explain something I don't have a word for. And because I DO write it's hard for me. She could have done it. She would have smiled at you and you would have understood. She didn't need the words like I do, her smile said it all. She was never a writer. 030817
meat yum. i like these posts. 030817
shoccolo she was a writer.

she wrote of things that mattered to no one but her. she wrote of things that guaranteed those receiving her message would comprehend it.

she wrote stories, some tragedies; some comedies, but every story touched you in some way, whether you realize it or not.

she sold your emotions to you in pieces - small bits of yourself you forgot existed, and small portions of your world to identify with the world around you.

she compromised her values, her system of beliefs, her politics; just to bring you that sandwich, that stereo, that area rug.

she wrote everything her heart had in her to write, loyal to everyone but herself. and she lamented.

but she continues to do it, and has no excuse for this obscene gesture, other than it ensures her survival - for now.
a thimble in time To Miss P.M.,

For someone who wasn't a writer, she seemed saddled with quite a number of writer-like problems.

A gifted imagination unraveled by low self-esteem. A zest for adventure unhinged by an inability to hammer out a plot. An endless yearning to spawn life on paper succumbed to writhing doubts and deep-seated beliefs that she was doomed to fail. She sealed her fate in an envelop without writing anything inside.

And yet,
the beginning of wisdom is fear:
fear of God; fear of success; fear of failure; fear of...

"O Fortuna,
velut luna
statu variabilis,"

Life is an ever-spinning wheel.
In the chaos which assaults us,
only our pride ensures success.
oldephebe wow! and can i say..i am staring mutely upon the wisdom and beauty of you words

Lemon_Soda she wasn't a writer because she couldn't write.

even though she wanted to be.
Piso Mojado this nonwriter misses you y 031008
Perplexlypuzzled I am rendered speachless, but not, however, wordless. I would be lying if I said that I believe I know what this woman went through. I write often, though often I feel that it isn't sufficient enough for others to read, however I leave my own written word around where others can always find them, should they want to. I believe that perhaps, if one writes often enough, others will be able to see things as that person saw.. to understand and love things as that person did... perhaps not in the same way, but writing, whether good or not, almost always communicates a message to the reader. I believe that if one writes, someone will read. 031013
Pandemos7 She was a writer, and she is a writer.
She just needs to remember that fact.
unhinged she was a wordsmith
she kept her heart on her verbal sleeve
Ouroboros He was right: I sealed my fate in an envelop without writing anything inside.

Time to rewrite this story.
heart/felt she was a joker
she wrote jokes
she plays bach's badinerie every morning
won't write serious contemplations
they pass like the tides, but return and revert
and she contemplates again

the jokes keep her
IGG even with time spare from a part-time job

she kept putting it off
thinking that she needed life experience to truly write

she was afraid that her ideas were limited
and that her unrealised potential

if realised

would be disappointing.

those two creative writing modules she took made her feel bad about her work,
not truly FELT , rushed ideas that didn't compare to the others in her class

she got reasonable marks
but as a formerly exceptional student
this, which she cared so much about, was more of a failure.

she felt the panic of being a fraud.
a fraud who couldn't write, even though that's what she wanted to do.
she used to tell people she was going to be a writer,
then one day a collegue,
who did write,
asked her if she wrote.
flustered, she said yes, meaning on blather, or inspirations jotted down in her text message drafts.

he said "if you write, then you're a writer!"

this well meaning comment made her feel more like a fraud.

she was scared of failing, i think.
she finds it hard to sit down and write, one of the author's biggest problems.

she will yet be a writer, she just needs the confidence to not find her work lacking and unfit for others to read.
mostly, she needs to stop wasting time and to spend 10 minutes a day just writing something creative, no matter how bad she thinks it is
as she knows that the more she writes, the more ideas come to her,
and the more she writes, the more vivid her dreams at night tend to be.
she hasn't remembered her dreams upon waking for a long time, with few exceptions.
this can be fixed, and then she just needs to overcome procrastination and her lack of confidence.

a 10 minute blather session to rekindle the imagination?
sounds like a plan.
what's it to you?
who go