Too long gone from this place, and the familiar green is tugging at my senses. Open pages, blank pages, so many possibilities and every word is a chance, a hope come alive. If there is no directive, no inspiration pressing urgently to the surface, my intent is always to simply create, to solidify something memorable here.
They say you cannot be a great writer until you are first a great reader, and while I see the logic in this, I also feel it is a double edged sword. How can one be confronted with greatness, with any type of literary genius, and come out unscathed in the end? It’s a trip back to the memories and horrors of middle school, where you are torn between wanting so desperately to measure up, and your need for unique self-expression. It’s all been written before, yet there are still authors that can floor me with their brilliance, and the perfect structuring of a six-word sentence.
“For sale: Baby shoes; never worn.” ~Hemingway
As my worst critic, I am often disgusted with what I write, if I can even get past the writer’s block. After several months or years, however, I find I am able to look back on my own writing with appreciation, as though it was written by a stranger. It’s with this that I continue, this hope that if I just keep writing, one day perhaps I will write something that floors my future self.
Something tells me today is not going to be that day.
