I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I have anything important to say.
The only thing that I know is that there is a driving need to write. A need to write about anything at all. A need that I need to nourish or else it will fade away.
Last night, I met up with my friend Thomas in Chino Hills. While we were enjoying a beer, he said that he wants to open up a dive bar in Oregon called Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
He said, “You should move to Oregon. You could be like a female Ernest Hemingway sitting in the corner with your laptop.” I don’t think I am any sort of Hemingway, but maybe one day I will be a published writer.
Right now I am a writer. I write. I just haven’t had the courage to try anything in over a year. I have just been rambling. Loosing time. Drinking it away. Until I have no idea where my life is heading.
All I know is that writing is something that I have control over. When everything is going wrong, I still have words.
Writing is the only way that I even know what I am feeling. I can figure out why I get upset over something seemingly inconsequential if I write it out. If I feel it out.
So why haven’t I been writing? Why haven’t I been writing every day. I always say that I will write every day– but I always find an excuse not to. And why is that, if it makes me feel better – if it helps me to understand my own heart.
My newest goal is to find myself in writing. To write until I bleed it out of my fingers. To talk to the moon at three a.m.