On writing

Writing has been a lot in my mind of late. Messages here and there give impulse to the long dead and buried notion that I can write but I ca never ever seem to get this odd itch of writing again. I can’t even fathom why I insist that I can ever regain the idea of writing with the same intensity, joy and perception of storytelling that I  lost somewhere in my alcoholic binges to stimulate writing. Little did I know I was killing the very thing that gave me joy. I like writing. Period. But I have nothing to write about. I have even come up with the idea of just writing about whatever no matter how bad it is. Failed writings of a failed writer. I am a failed writer because all I have is the intention with an emptiness that resists description at all.

When did I lose this tremendous gift I used to have to write? I wait too long to write. Maybe that’s it. There are periods during the day when I get ideas about what to write. Or maybe I just don’t plot what to do and then write about it. Puff. It’s a bitch. I want to create again. So I need to read more. Perhaps that will cure me.