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So I haven't got a copy of a screenplay or even the notes for a novel in my journal. But I really like writing. It makes me feel like my brain is running cross-country, taking deep breaths. It makes me remember things like infinity.

Nothing is more boring than hearing someone justify not writing.

Maybe it is the imp of perversion that crouches in the corner of many people's brains. It convinces you to put off what you know will make you ultimately feel great. The imp feeds off of procrastination, abusive relationships, and social gaffes.

But now many of my friends are reaping the joy of having worked hard at something in a directed way. They have real jobs and have made some cool choices. They never strutted around thinking that a creative job was an entilement for imaginative people.

Lately I feel silly for not being more directed. For laying a fishing net instead of fashioning a spear. It's one of those moments of doubt, OK?

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post #485
bio: adina

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