So okay, let’s be specific here: yes, I do write every day, but for the moment, it would seem that my pact to post something every day has, shall be say, suffered.
Alas, it becomes necessary to simply say the following: right now, my life is in, shall we say, a difficult place.
It is made more so by the fact that it is not the best idea, at the moment, for me to specify exactly why this is so. Suffice to say that it is something in which I hope to one day write about in great detail, and I shall.
In truth, actually, I have indeed written about it in my journal. I have written about it in great detail.
With this has come the desire to share what I have written in great detail. I would love to do this, because I admit that I very much enjoy sharing myself with the world; it is a weakness of mine.
Yet again: alas, now is not the time.
So I leave it at this: writing, at this moment, is difficult. Actually, not quite: writing long pieces in my journal about the specifics of what I’m going through right now—and how I would like to share it with the world—comprises a great deal of the words that I put together at the moment. It is actually quite easy, and quite satisfying.
Yet again though: as for sharing it, now is simply not the time.
I’ve come to see that there is something particularly frustrating—painful, in fact—in being a storyteller with a great story that he can’t tell. Right now, I know this much about all those things that I have written: they form a great story. I have edited it into close to 200 pages of great reading; it would be satisfying to share that story.
Just turn it in to a PDF and post it, part of me says.
But then another part says. No, not now.
Later, maybe. Okay...later, definitely.
Furthermore, it is incredibly difficult to go through life keeping this story to myself. So much of the writing that I do is about taking things inside of me that feel as if they have to come out, and getting them on the paper or screen so that I can share them with the world. To not do so is to somehow feel as if these things must remain inside me, where they haunt my mind and soul.
So yes, I share aspects of the things that I write about with friends and family. And even here, I’m careful. I don’t want to be drag, you know.
In fact, this is the reason that I so prefer getting this stuff down in the written word. With the written word, I do most of the work; I edit myself, and spend a lot of time getting the words right so that I don’t ramble. Also, the reader can read this whenever he or she wants; it’s not as if the person reading has to read it at the exact moment when I write it (unlike listening, which a person has to do at the exact point that I talk).
So yeah…right now, yes, I write, but there are a lot of things in which it is wise for me to keep them to myself. Leave it at this: my life, at the moment, has officially hit a rough patch.
I am writing every day. I may not post every day. Be patient, and be kind.
That is all. Thank you.
Alas, it becomes necessary to simply say the following: right now, my life is in, shall we say, a difficult place.
It is made more so by the fact that it is not the best idea, at the moment, for me to specify exactly why this is so. Suffice to say that it is something in which I hope to one day write about in great detail, and I shall.
In truth, actually, I have indeed written about it in my journal. I have written about it in great detail.
With this has come the desire to share what I have written in great detail. I would love to do this, because I admit that I very much enjoy sharing myself with the world; it is a weakness of mine.
Yet again: alas, now is not the time.
So I leave it at this: writing, at this moment, is difficult. Actually, not quite: writing long pieces in my journal about the specifics of what I’m going through right now—and how I would like to share it with the world—comprises a great deal of the words that I put together at the moment. It is actually quite easy, and quite satisfying.
Yet again though: as for sharing it, now is simply not the time.
I’ve come to see that there is something particularly frustrating—painful, in fact—in being a storyteller with a great story that he can’t tell. Right now, I know this much about all those things that I have written: they form a great story. I have edited it into close to 200 pages of great reading; it would be satisfying to share that story.
Just turn it in to a PDF and post it, part of me says.
But then another part says. No, not now.
Later, maybe. Okay...later, definitely.
Furthermore, it is incredibly difficult to go through life keeping this story to myself. So much of the writing that I do is about taking things inside of me that feel as if they have to come out, and getting them on the paper or screen so that I can share them with the world. To not do so is to somehow feel as if these things must remain inside me, where they haunt my mind and soul.
So yes, I share aspects of the things that I write about with friends and family. And even here, I’m careful. I don’t want to be drag, you know.
In fact, this is the reason that I so prefer getting this stuff down in the written word. With the written word, I do most of the work; I edit myself, and spend a lot of time getting the words right so that I don’t ramble. Also, the reader can read this whenever he or she wants; it’s not as if the person reading has to read it at the exact moment when I write it (unlike listening, which a person has to do at the exact point that I talk).
So yeah…right now, yes, I write, but there are a lot of things in which it is wise for me to keep them to myself. Leave it at this: my life, at the moment, has officially hit a rough patch.
I am writing every day. I may not post every day. Be patient, and be kind.
That is all. Thank you.
