well, maybe not life itself but the writer in me has been gnawing at me the last few days.  Nothing painful but a reminder; a memory of liking to write at one point.  It keeps making me look at my reference stuff, my novel in its printed out form shoved in a binder and my notes.  My eyes look and a faint desire to write sparks and fads in me.

Than I do what most writers do at this moment, play a game.  Silly yes but true.  Most writers and yes, I fall into the most type, fail to heed to the spark.  They spend countless hours on Facebook, playing some random video game or reading someone else’s work.  They daydream up the fame, the reviews and peer envy.  They wish for more and do little to create it.  That is me in sentence form.  A ball of wishes, a desire to success and an overwhelming lack of follow through.  Maybe later, maybe tomorrow, maybe …

So as I get ready for work, the spark fads again and filters into the mass memories of other almost writing moments.  I do wonder if I ever take a few seconds to act on the spark would life be different.  Would my wishes become my life?  Would my fear turn to strength?  Or would I blend into the world of a million self published random writers who poured their lives into words and watched the readers pass them by for more mainstream books?

Terra

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