Nothing is ever enough. The money we make. The respect we earn. The satisfaction in a job well done. No matter the tears and sweat we pour into ourselves, into others, and into projects—in the end we are left, surrounded by all we have gained and wondering, is there ever a point where we will be satisfied with what life?
Each mask hides another,
Veil on tear-stained veil.
Each tattered page of my heart
Inked and stamped and sealed
In the shadows of my mind.
Why do we write? Authors put hours and weeks and months into a project. They pound their head against walls, or sometimes against keyboards to see if any of the gibberish that results has merit.
And for what?
A few dollars, perhaps? A glowing review? Someone somewhere kinda knowing their name?
I got an idea from my best friend, awhile back. Something that helps me watch people better. Think about them. Wonder. You know, all that creepy, stalkerish stuff.
I write notes about people I see and save them.
I don’t write these all that often, but they are very fun, are good practice for me, and they give me a bank of characters to pull from if I need one sometime.
So I just had a birthday.
To put it in the terms my family uses, we celebrated me surviving another year and coming one year closer to death.
I was going to write a nice, clever article about how I can coach you in writing and offer all this cool stuff.
I woke up this morning and decided that was boring and no one cares anyway
So here’s a post about how to write a novel according to Avengers: Endgame.
I’ve told you all about Realm Makers. I’ve mentioned it’s amazing to be among ‘your’ people and wear costumes. I’ve mentioned it is inspiring. I may not have mentioned that a common theme of several speakers this year was depression.
So I can fake being an extrovert at places like work. The weird thing is when I turn into one, at least for a little bit. And this summer has shown me both the depths of my extrovertedness and my introvertedness. All within the span of five weeks.