I just want to write. I have words raging inside of me that need to be read and felt. I try to find ways to spit them out. Too many rules and regulations get in the way.
“Come write for us,” they said.
“We value new and and creative writers, but you have to follow our strict and oppressive structure and formula! Don’t forget, it must be for everyone!”
What was it that they always said in school? Write what you know? I try and I do, but I keep getting friction and static and told how it’s wrong. It seems to be more, write what you know, but not that.
Sometimes I have these romantic notions that I’ll find myself sitting by the sea near a light house, a pen in hand and papers around me, filled with my words and the world will shiver.
I’m tired of looking at the papers that pile along my closet.
Sometimes I just want to scream and shake!
Other times I am so defeated I stop. It’s a lot like dying. The words are there, somewhere lost, like a child looking for its mother. Hiding from the words hurts.
Other times I get proud. I write without thinking. I become careless. It’s no wonder I am nothing.
I want to set the world on fire, have tea with Neil Gaiman.
I just want to write.